The Weight of a Crown
by Isabelle Sumner
Summary: Two sisters stand on the brink of destruction, their conflict threatening the end of a country. And one man and his woman stand in the middle, weighed down by love and duty. When all is said and done, when the scores are finally settled, who will come out the victor and who will fall from grace? (AU no vampirism. Edward X Bella. Trilogy Part 3, final part)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This is the **third** part of a trilogy. If you have not read the first and second parts, please go back and read "Secrets of the Court" and "The Broken Throne". I will be posting two versions of this fic (at some point). The first version of this story (A Tale of Angloa) was posted before this twilight version (as I have also explained in Secrets of the Court and The Broken Throne). I did not wish to remove the first version since some people were reading it so I kept it, for them. I try to be as historically accurate as possible, so if you see any faults, please PM me. Since the country of Angloa is a made up country with its own history and culture, it may differ from other European countries at the time. Rated M for mature themes.

I would also like to point out that Reading author's notes can be important at times. I know people tend to skip them at times. But I want to be clear to some anonymous reviewers out there: I have stated _again and again_ that "Secrets of the Court" was only the first fic in a series. If you do not read the information that is so clearly given to you, I cannot be held responsible for your disappointment. I always appreciate constructive criticism, but not blatant bashing.

Lastly, for those new here, English is not my first language. I still learn as I write, so if you find any grammatical faults, please make them known to me, I would really appreciate it.

* * *

 **THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 1_

 _June 7_ _th_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

Lord Thomas Athar was old and weary. He ignored the pains that ached in his stiff limbs. He ignored the pains that were ever present in his heart and soul. The old man wondered what Philip would say if he saw what Angloa had become.

The old man shivered at the thought.

The Angloa of his childhood was dead. A rotten core desperately trying to escape a creeping darkness stood in its place.

Upon his shoulders rested the weight of a country, the outcome of its future. He and Anthony Fawkes had acted in the face of danger, moving their allies and troops deep into Raven's Grove. They had distanced themselves far away from someone that would most likely have ended not only their lives, but those loyal to them.

Thomas Athar had waged a guerrilla war against the vicious Queen of Angloa, refusing to accept what she was becoming. He had stooped low, cast aside any notion of what honor had been to him, cast aside his pride in the face of danger.

He had kept his thoughts and worries to himself, knowing well he had entered a war he could never win. Athar chuckled as his thoughts rang ominously in his mind. He foresaw his future as clear and pristine as the meadow where they had settled.

But it did not shine as brightly.

While the weeks progressed to months, Athar had never expected _him_ to return—and least not to Wessport. When news of Edward Cullen's arrival to the capital reached their camp, several of their soldiers had left in a haste, knowing it was only a matter of time now. If Edward had sided with the queen, there was no hope left for the rest of them. Many prominent lords of the country had kept to their mansions and estates, not willing to dirty their hands in this feudal conflict.

It had been selfish to ever think that Edward Cullen would rally to his side when he was offered a comfortable life next to the woman he loved—whether it was as her husband or lover. Alas, the constant waves of disappointment would not evade him as he had thought the man to be something _more_.

It might have been the vast number of tales the soldiers would whisper about him every evening by the fire—the awe in their eyes as they retold stories of General Cullen on the battlefield, hoping he would join them. They had elevated him to something more than what he had been. At least, that was what Athar thought.

Until that very day.

Getting older and, hopefully, wiser, Athar had reflected many times on the occurrences of life. One thing that he always had questioned was the people that surrounded him, the games they had played for so long. Many individuals graced the earth: good, bad or somewhere in between. It was all a gray mess with codes of morality, greed, and lust for power separating them.

A person who manages to affect the lives of hundreds—if not thousands—holds great power, whether he knows it or not. What that person does with that power, is up to him or her. The decision to use it for own selfish means or for the better of their fellow humans is what sets them apart.

The pensive expression deepened.

He sat by a torn table, beneath the bare sky, the waft of dirt and forest pressed against him. The mellow pace of a summer's day progressed as he philosophized on. A question that had claimed his mind ever since having met Philip Fell resurged now, stronger than ever.

What makes a hero?

Is it blatant bravery? A particular set of skills? Perhaps it is a strong leadership, a strong hand or decisiveness in the face of uncertainty. The old man shook his head forcefully as his mind sprung into motion once more.

No.

A hero—a t _rue_ hero—is something more. He had never really known a true hero until now, until that very day as he sat next to his tent, looking over maps and papers showcasing his imminent defeat. He had known the instant one of his soldiers had dragged him out into the open meadow to show him the approaching group.

It had been early afternoon when the warning horn had sounded, announcing a small group of riders approaching. They had all taken their positions, ready for an attack.

It never came. Instead, the riders disappeared between the thick foliage of Raven's Grove—as if the forest itself deemed it worthy to hide and protect them. Not even their best scouts could find them. And, so, he had retired to his tent. Until the moment where his soldier burst in shouting "My lord, you must come!" Athar had rushed out of his seat and followed the young man to the opening of the meadow, his eyes widening and a smile claiming his mouth.

 _What makes a hero?_ he had asked himself. The answer seemed delivered to him on a whim of fate. It wasn't stupid or foolish bravery. It wasn't just the glorious deeds—the titles or ranks bestowed upon the individual. Any fool could do those things. A true hero was someone who made a personal sacrifice for the benefit of others. A true hero was someone who would cast aside his own wants and needs, the safety of his loved ones and join a losing side because he knew it was the right thing to do.

Edward Cullen had done such a thing. And as he rode into the camp, poised proudly upon the calico mare which he rode, they all regained some notion of hope. Athar stared around the camp—looked at the glistening eyes of the soldiers and officers as they all thought the same thing—the battle was not lost.

But he had not just come himself. Behind him, straddling a horse herself and looking the worse for wear, sat none other than Rosalie Fell, princess of Angloa. Athar cast a glance at his fellow soldier and both could feel a warmth expanding in their chest as the small train of people rode into the glade of the meadow.

* * *

Edward had never really been comfortable with all the stares ever since donning the mask. But he had grown used to them. In the past, however, most stares and looks had been that of fright and caution. Only when he returned to Wessport after a successful battle, would the crowd cheer for him.

But it was so very different now.

He had dived headfirst into Raven's Grove, knowing well this would be the place where Athar would hide whatever was left of his army. He knew well that the trees would give them the protection they needed. The woods shielded them from the prying eyes of the vicious Queen of Angloa. The others had followed in silence, trusting him. Edward had led his horse, knowing the scouts would spot them soon enough. The further into the darkness they rode, the more agitated their horses became.

But, finally, they were set upon by someone very familiar.

He dropped with his bandits from the trees in a familiar whoosh, standing arrogantly in front of him. A proud eyebrow rose as a smirk spread across his features.

"And in our hour of need, he arrives," the man chuckled. Edward stopped his horse as Saxton stood before them, backed by his bandits. The bandits no longer dressed in white furs to hide them for there was no snow now. Raven's Grove had gone from being a white inferno to a green paradise. The bandits wore tattered clothing in muted browns and greens. Emmett Saxton looked wilder than before. His neatly trimmed beard and brown hair flowed wild around his face and head. His once pristine clothes were battered and ridden with dirt—as if he had no time to clean them. His eyes were wide, the circles under them showing his true state of utter fatigue. The trees swayed lazily in the summer breeze as the perfume of wet earth and blossoming flowers enclosed them all.

Edward was in no cheerful mood. The news he brought them was far from good. "I need to see Lord Athar," he said in a low voice. The earth beneath his horse had been untouched, the green moss as soft and fluffy as the clouds that graced the sky. But the hooves of his horse stirred the ground as it trampled in place.

"That depends," Saxton answered. And, for the first time, they all perceived the caution in his voice.

Rosalie pushed forth, making herself seen, hoping it would be enough to let them pass. While her presence did indeed thwart Saxton, it did not change his mind. "Depends on what?" She was tired and needed peace and quiet to reflect on what was now to come. A lot was now to change and Rosalie, as well as the others, needed to recover.

For the first time since having met him, Edward perceived Saxton to be rather uncomfortable. He twisted where he stood; as if he would rather not be before them in that instant.

"How do we know that Queen Victoria did not send you?" he finally asked.

They all should have been offended by that question. But times were tough, and every precaution was needed. Rosalie held her tongue as Edward dismounted his horse, heading for Saxton in sure steps. His men neared him with drawn blades and cocked pistols. But once Saxton caught the look in Edward's green eyes he put up a hand, stopping the bandits.

Edward Cullen neared him without hesitating as he unbuckled the blade and dagger resting on his hip. He grasped for the hidden one in his boot and finally reached Saxton, pressing them into his hand. "We will follow with you unarmed and with our hands tied, if that will reassure you. But we _must_ speak with Lord Athar." He cocked his head in the direction of the woman. "And Lady Renée is very ill. She needs a physician, or whoever it is here that takes care of your wounded."

Those words brought the shadow of a smile to Saxton's face. But he would not allow his handsome features to change. He looked past the masked man at Isabella, who supported her sickly mother. The young man's eyes rested briefly on Rosalie and Glovendale, before looking at Edward once more.

"Follow me, then," he said, giving Edward his weapons back. He trusted in him as much as Edward had. It was a show of good faith on both their behalves. Edward took his weapons and was soon in the saddle, following the bandits and their leader deeper into the forest.

They might have gone for hours, or was it days that passed by so briefly? The rooftop of the forest would not tell where the sun was, only that it was an invasive light breaking through the heavy foliage. The deeper into the forest they continued, the thicker the sea of moss and shrubs became. But Edward followed the bandit leader in good faith.

Soon, the path cleared up and a vast meadow opened in what could only be described as the heart of the woods. Some tents lined the farthest part of it, perched atop a small hill. They crossed a small stream as the music of whooshing water mixed with the faint chatter of what few men remained in Athar and Fawkes' ranks. Edward saw the meager army and counted only about five hundred men. In an open battle, it wouldn't even be enough to defend one flank.

The soldiers slept under the bare sky as they had nowhere to find either bedding or tents. But it was warm during the nights, and they cared little. They sat in smaller groups, chatting away the hours of the day. There was little else to do between attacks on armory supplies or carriages sent for the capital. They were the last few true loyal men in Angloa. Most stayed there because of a sense of duty. They did not get paid and only had just enough food. Others came because of the food, but stayed because of Fawkes, Saxton, and Athar.

The men that made up the army were not seasoned warriors. Most were local farmers, and some had been soldiers in Fawkes and Athar's personal armies, deciding to follow their lords.

Movement in the bushes alerted them, until Saxton and his men—the scouts—emerged from the bosom of the forest.

The soldiers would have reverted to their pastime, if it were not for the sight that followed.

Perched upon a calico horse, a man in dark clothes and black mask emerged as if he were a specter. Many of the men's jaws dropped in disbelief at what they saw. Several of them sprang to their feet to alert Athar as the company continued forward. They stared as they never had before, certain that who they saw could not be real.

But, indeed, he was. Alongside him, with her stern face fixed on the largest tents of them all, sat Rosalie Fell. She gripped the reins tighter than necessary as her breath quickened in pace. They were led to the grouping of white tents when Athar walked forth, having been at a table next to the largest tent.

His white hair and beard swayed in the wind as he stared at the five riders in complete and utter disbelief. He wore a battered doublet in muted brown and dark hoses with black boots. An old sword clung to his hip—the style was not in use anymore and several decades old. It was more of a relic of the past than a weapon. But Athar insisted on wearing it. He might be an old man, but he would be armed and ready for battle, if the time ever came. His gray eyes swept over the group in silent astonishment.

"I did not believe it when I heard it," he uttered in surprise as they all dismounted. Theodor Glovendale bit back a moan of pain as his body ached. "Theo?" Athar exclaimed.

"Hello, cousin," he answered. The men stared stiffly at each other. "We need a physician for Lady Renée," Theodor finally said, nodding toward Renée Swan as she was supported by her daughter on the horse.

"Jameson, take her," Athar said to one of the soldiers—a tall boy with fuzzy black hair. "The rest of you, please follow me." He still lingered on them, trying to make sense of it all.

They all did as he bade without a word. The opening of the tent billowed, and the fabric was ruffled gently by the wind as they walked inside. Dusty old rugs lined the ground and a vast table with maps and parchments was placed in the middle. A red cloth separated a small area—probably for sleeping. The surroundings took Edward back to when he had campaigned during the war.

Athar showed them to some chairs by the table, having some men clear away the maps as the six of them sat down.

He had someone call for Fawkes and, as they waited, he took in the sight of each and one of them.

Athar's eyes first landed on Edward. The man he had once known as arrogant, prideful and frightful, was seemingly changed. The once dark aura surrounding Edward had been replaced by that of questioning, doubt and something else. Suddenly he did not appear the tall, frightening giant that he had come to know. The masked man was more down to earth—he was more human now than before, perhaps. Edward stared emptily in front of himself as the events from the previous days caught up with him at an alarming rate. He had no doubt that they did as well with the rest of them.

Rosalie had scarcely said a word and her gaze was as empty as his. She held the rosary firmly in the grasp of her hand as she gripped the wooden chair with the other—ignoring how her grip turned harder and harder. The skin of her knuckles turned white as she, unbeknownst to herself, seemed determined to squish the hardened wood.

Theodor Glovendale could not directly look at his cousin. When Victoria had sprung into action and taken the throne, he had answered her summons before those of Athar. Theodor had ignored his cousin, believing he owed loyalty to the crown before his own blood. And now that he sat there, across the man he had turned his back on, he could not ignore the twinge of guilt that rushed through him. Athar had stood up against Victoria while the rest of them had all turned their backs on him.

The only person in the room seemingly present to have a conversation with was Isabella Swan. While she was as engulfed by her thoughts as the others, she did genuinely seem happy to once more rest her eyes upon the kind and gentle man. Emmett loomed over the wooden table as Fawkes rushed into the tent, utterly out of breath. But his breath was forever more stolen as he watched the group of people assembled around the long table.

"I…came as…fast…as I could," he heaved, catching his breath and leaned over, placing his hands on his knees. "…not as…young as I once was," he struggled.

The room remained as silent as it had been before his intrusion. Anthony Fawkes straightened up, regaining his dignity further as he took a seat next to Athar.

They all sat there for a while without uttering as much as a sound. And indeed, what was to be said? How could they break such news to the older lords?

All glances finally landed on the masked man, expecting him to take charge—to take the word. "We have come as allies, Lord Athar, not as your enemies," he started, figuring it would be easier to ease into the heartbreaking news instead of serving it up as a soul-wrenching punch to the face.

"We will not turn you away, Cullen, despite what the queen might have said of you," Fawkes answered. "You are, and always will be, welcomed here, Edward," he added as Athar nodded in silent approval.

"As you see we are a small force—but capable of much. And now that both you and Her Highness join the ranks, the morale will surely rise," Athar said as his eyes glistened.

"I thank you, Lord Athar," Rosalie answered in staccato tones.

"It is I who should be thanking you, Your Highness. Without your reports, we would have perished a long time ago." Rosalie looked away to the opening of the tent, as if those words brought pain and shame to her. Her eyes flickered to the emerald grass that bathed in the sun outside of the billowing white fabric enclosing them. Athar perceived the distant pain in her eyes, the inner battle that waged on within her. "Which was the right thing to do," he added when he thought she was questioning her decision.

"I know," the princess cut off as her eyes turned glossy with unshed tears. But she would not say more—not let them know of the weakness she tried so hard to fight off. "I fear my sister will send her army for us now that I have fled the palace," her eyes drifted from the picture of nature to the men and woman that sat around the dark mahogany table. "You must be ready for whatever she throws our way."

"We have tried to rally more to our side, but they have not answered our call, Your Highness—" Rosalie cut him off once more as a sense of duty seemed to overtake her. She settled into her practiced speech, settled into her mundane task of pleasing others. She was a princess and part of a royal family. Her life was not her own and Rosalie knew well what now awaited. She would not run from the conflict. She would face it head-on if she had to. The princess caught Athar and Fawkes' eyes with her own, letting out a silent sigh as she smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress and pushed a blonde lock aside.

"Then you will call on them once more, Lord Athar."

"Your Highness?" Saxton asked, thus speaking in the company for the first time.

"For the past decades, since the death of my father, Angloa has been on the brink of chaos several times. She has seen famine, wars, and greed corrupt her. I thought it would all end with my cousin," Rosalie started as they all hung onto every word she uttered. "And now I believe a final war draws near, a war that was always inevitable. Undeniable from the day my father drew his last breath—a war that is the result of his pride. The lords and people of this land will be faced with a difficult decision of choosing sides. And we must make them choose our side."

"That is all very noble and aspiring, Your Highness. But I do not think men will come rallying to our cause just because you fled the palace of Wessport," Saxton added in a bitter tone. "I speak frankly when I say that we are the last men standing between Victoria and her complete domain over this island."

"They will come together to fight against her." It was Edward that spoke now, the charge in his voice adding more tension in the room. Nothing was heard but their quickening breaths and the faint birdsong penetrating the canopy.

"We cannot be naïve enough to see it that way, Lord Cullen. I wish it would be so, but many will be too afraid to lift their finger, if it means having the rage of the queen directed at them. I came to these woods because I knew a dungeon cell waited for me—because I suspected Victoria was somehow involved with Braun," Athar said, forgetting Edward was not a count anymore.

"There is much you do not know, Lord Athar," Rosalie added. "And much that will surprise you still." She looked out over the faces that once more directed their attention to her. Rosalie had made her decision and she would stick to it. If she had fled the palace, there was only one outcome that could now stem from it. She could never return and hope to be forgiven.

"No one will fight against Victoria for they know she will harm Jasper Fell if we lift a finger against her. It is the reason we have not struck harder against her," Fawkes muttered.

When Jasper' name was mentioned as if he were still alive, Rosalie forced her eyes shut while the sorrow washed over her. She grabbed the chair harder, ignoring how a splinter edged itself through her skin. The horrible memory of his beheading played in her mind several times as the chatter around her died down. The sound muffled, and she dared not open her eyes, lest she lose control. She prayed then—the only relief she had ever found in her life. She put her full trust, her fears and questions in the hands of a higher power. Rosalie hoped someone would listen to her prayers, hoped someone would show her the way. She needed to be strong now, she needed to be present if they were to win the pending war.

"Jasper is dead," she finally said as the sound boomed through her filtered world. The princess opened her eyes and blinked away the unshed tears. "My sister had him executed."

With his death and no children as his heirs, Victoria Fell was indeed the next in line. All should have been settled then. But if the information they held over her ever got out, she would most likely lose a few supporters. They might not be many, but it was enough to make a difference. Alas, Rosalie had no heart to give such a low blow to her sister.

Athar froze when the news finally made sense to him. He had been by that boy's side ever since the death of Magnus Fell. Athar had seen Jasper grow, striving to be a better person than both of his parents. He had seen Jasper try to reach for the stars—try to be a true king, but never quite achieving his goals. The young monarch, who he had tried to mold after Philip Fell, had been like a son to him. And now he was dead—brutally murdered by his own blood. Athar could not explain the hollowness that so readily claimed him. It was the same hollowness and empty pain that had surged through him at the death of his wife and child. It was not quite as powerful. But the small hole in his chest, remedied by time, was torn open again.

But the worst, they soon realized, was that there was no time or place to mourn him. They had no time to stop and think of Jasper as Victoria's forces were no doubt already making their way down from Wessport to demand their surrender.

Fawkes and Saxton exchanged a swift glance between each other. The three leaders of the small forest army did not know where to go next now. Jasper' death did indeed give Victoria the right to wear the crown—she was truly and rightly the queen of Angloa in all sense and purpose.

"Your Highness," Fawkes commenced in a thick voice as he reached for her over the table. "I mean you no disrespect. But I will never accept a woman such as your sister as queen." He looked around to find sympathizers for his words. Saxton nodded, his gaze steadfast on Rosalie as his brow furrowed—thinking what she must be going through.

"The people should have risen up in revolt—the lords should have fought back when Magnus and Rebecca took the throne. Perhaps we would've found ourselves in a different Angloa then," Saxton added.

"But the past is in the past," Theodor Glovendale joined in. "And it cannot be changed." He started realizing in which direction they were headed. The ambassador had no qualms about it. He knew it would be a long and arduous campaign. But it was, indeed, their only option.

"We will fight against your sister, Your Highness. She will rule Angloa no longer—but only with your permission," Fawkes said passionately.

For the first time since leaving the palace, Rosalie's confusion and fright managed to slip through the cracks. She was as lost as ever, and her inner battle raged on in full force. Edward tensed up next to his sister, knowing well what she was going through. What frustrated him more, however, was that he could offer no real word of comfort or support.

Athar leaned forward in his chair, his combed-back hair falling into his face as the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. The old man appeared a hundred then, as if the last few months had stolen years from his life. "It rests on you, Your Highness, if we continue or not. We have fought this long because we wanted to stand by Jasper. And now he is gone," the old lord whispered as his voice faded out into the pleasant summer air. "Gone," he lamented in the same heart-wrenching whisper.

Rosalie gathered what little confidence she could muster. Her eyes trailed over the group, meeting each and every one of them. They rested, finally, on Edward for a long while. "I know what my sister has become." The princess put away the broken rosary and clasped her hands together. "I know what it would entail coming here," she said as she stood up, walking to the head of the table. She turned to face them, straightening her back, her will turning to iron as her demeanor changed. The hesitant princess washed away as a sense of duty took over.

"I will fight my sister." They all shivered at the weight of the words, at the decisiveness of them. "For Angloa," she whispered. "And for Jasper."

"And who will bear the crown then?" Isabella's smooth voice broke through the rising tension as she walked toward the princess. Both women stared at one another, the younger one having asked the most sensible and most weighing question of all. There was no remorse or shame in Isabella's face at having asked such a thing. She awaited the answer patiently. It was a question Rosalie had wanted to avoid.

"I have no right to claim it, Lady Swan," she whispered back. "If I did, it would be seen as usurpation. I would be no better than my uncle."

But Isabella shook her head at those words. "You already know that not to be true," she stated. Isabella's gaze flickered in the dull-lit room as the fabric billowed with the lazy wind. She turned to Thomas Athar. "Lord Athar, remind me again the oath taken by the kings of this land as they claim the crown," she asked.

Athar's eyes lit up when he realized where Isabella was going. He stepped forth ceremoniously, so that all might hear him clearly as he spoke. "The monarch will solemnly swear to govern with all their ability the islands of Angloa and Cantabria in accordance with their respective laws and customs. The monarch will promise to follow and maintain the laws of God, to care for their people in a manner that is righteous, just and fair."

Athar did not need to say more. "The unjust execution of your cousin—a blatant act of _regicide_ —the treasonous actions against the people, putting this very country in danger for her own benefit and conspiring goes against the oath your sister swore, against the sacred anointment she took," Isabella said. "You have, I believe, every right to that crown, but only if you enforce your right and claim it, Your _Royal_ Highness," she bowed.

She dared look up at the woman in front of her and was met by wide eyes, quickly masked by a woman used to never showing her true emotions.

"You would not take the crown for the power or riches it possesses, Your Highness, but for the duty your bloodline implies. You are a princess of this land, and only you can help us save it," Athar added, taking Rosalie's clasped hands in his. "Please," he pleaded in a faint voice. Rosalie's eyes flickered about the room, the duty she was faced with weighed heavy on her shoulders.

She did not want the crown—did not want what it represented. But they all saw in her a beacon of light: hope. If anyone was fit for that power, it was Rosalie Fell. For indeed, she was the only one except her sister left.

The princess's expression turned grim as she accepted the heavy-duty, nodding slowly, thus sealing her fate.

The rest of them got up, chairs scraping on dusty carpets and dull earth, boots shuffling as they came to stand in front of her. Rosalie's face moved not a muscle as all the men and Isabella kneeled before her, accepting Rosalie Fell as their sovereign and true monarch.

They all spoke in unison the words that emerged hollow, powerful and imposing to the ears of the young princess.

"Long live the queen."

* * *

 **UPDATE (09-01-2019): I have made a playlist of the music that inspired me while writing this fic. Feel free to listen to it as well!** **I cannot link it here so you will find it on my profile!**

 **A/N: I AM BACK! After a looong break, I am finally here again. How I have missed posting this story weekly. I actually wanted to start earlier, but decided against it because I did not get that far in writing. Half of it is still WIP. I will try to keep up a weekly schedule, but I make no promises. I hope you liked this first chapter. I think this fic might be the longest out of the three. There are a lot of plots that need to be tied together. Let us see what is in store for our Bella and Edward ;)**

 **If you haven't seen it, there is a nice poster made for this fic on my Tumblr, I recommend that you check it out at www/./isabellesumnerff/./tumblr/./ I don't know why, but I cannot link it on my profile. :(**

 **Liked this fic? Please leave a review! :)**

 **Cheers!**


	2. Chapter 2

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 2_

 _June 7_ _th_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

By the side of the glade, where the river narrowed significantly, a parted camp stood. It was a vast meadow with a rushing stream running through it. A circle in the treetop canopy opened above it where the sun could penetrate through, allowing luscious flora and fauna to prosper. On a small hill were a cluster of elegant tents, housing the officers and generals of the campaign. Going down the slope the foot soldiers were grouped, sleeping under the bare sky at night. Behind the hill was the civilian camp. The civilian tents billowed, shadowed by the vast pillar-like trees that reached for the sky.

Women stood by the stream, in charge of washing and mending the soldier's torn clothes. Others helped with cooking hearty meals or cleaning what little armor was available. Fawkes led Isabella through the small, separate encampment. Edward would join her once he had spoken more with Athar and Saxton. The young woman sighed. They had barely had a moment to themselves. Would the time ever come?

Isabella felt most out of place in that group. She was but a civilian, with little to say. Yet, she'd had such impactful input upon their arrival that Rosalie had made the young woman her instant confidant. Isabella was to stay at the civilian encampment, adjacent to the larger one, staying by her side at every turn.

"The men that came with us," Fawkes started, "would not leave behind their families. So many of them followed. Most of these women left little behind. That tent over there," he said and pointed to a torn tent with patched up holes hastily sewn on it. "That is the cook's tent. He prepares all the meals. He provides those who cannot gather enough supplies with something to fill their stomachs. That man is a saint, I tell you, my lady. And a good cook, considering," Fawkes continued.

"Considering what?" Isabella wondered.

"He is a friar, a priest," Fawkes chuckled. "Worked mostly with bees back in his old parish. He took some of them with him, however. Expect to eat a lot of honey. But the soldiers do not complain as he provides them with excellent mead. I should add myself to that lot. It might not be Madeira, but it is fine stuff," he chuckled. Isabella had to swallow a chuckle herself at Fawkes behavior. It was readily noticeable how he had spent time away from the grace and fineries of court. He was no doubt more adjusted to interacting with foot soldiers rather than lords and courtiers. Fawkes had grown more rugged, more robust. But Isabella did not mind, she liked this more relaxed atmosphere.

They continued past the tent as many of the young children and women lazily enjoyed the sun by the stream as they worked in a slow comfort. If Isabella had not known any better, she could never have guessed a war was closing in on them. The women had braided their hair away from their faces and would, then and again, brush the sweat pearling on their temples with cool rags, dipped in the chilled running water that traveled all the way from the mountains.

"That is probably the most important tent in the whole encampment," Athar pointed. Amongst the ragged tents, standing in muted colors, a white tent stood out with a black cross painted on it.

"Is it a makeshift chapel?" she wondered.

"Indeed not, my lady, it is the hospital, the infirmary—or a makeshift one at least. Your mother is in there. Resting, no doubt."

She headed for the tent without another word. Isabella knew her mother needed her—perhaps she needed Renée Swan by her side as well. She slipped past the working people and running children. Clothes hung on suspended ropes, drying in the warm breeze. Several fires had small pots bubbling away furiously as supper neared. It seemed many were still cooking their own meals, despite the priest providing them. The women and their children stepped away as Isabella walked past them. There was a sort of authority in her air that made them curtsy. Fawkes took notice on the way the young woman proudly bore herself with little thought as she pushed past the coverings to the tent and entered.

Isabella was glad to find it so empty. And the few people present were not seriously wounded. Cots had been placed in three lines within the vast tent. Wooden poles reached to the roof, supporting the structure. By the end of the long tent, were some small wooden crates—supplies and linens, no doubt.

She spotted some women. A few of them bore the habits of the church—nuns. They seemed to be the caretakers of the sick here, working in silence, curing and alleviating pains. The fatigue and aches washed away by the gentle touch of their experienced hands.

Renée Swan lay off to the side, a thin veil hanging around her bed so that she might have some privacy. One could only see the outline of the person through it—no more. She was sleeping when Isabella finally got to her. She pushed past the thin fabric and went to sit by her mother's side. Fawkes stayed behind by the entrance, giving mother and daughter some space.

She had never seen her mother so at peace as then. Her face was smooth from any frowns or worry. Renée Swan looked ten years younger as she slept on. Isabella brushed a stray lock of brown hair away from her face and brought the covers up higher. She sensed a presence creeping up on her and swiftly turned around. Ever since almost being accosted on Braun's ship, the young woman had grown more alert. She would never again let anyone sneak up on her.

Her eyes widened when she came face to face with the most dark and intense orbs she had ever witnessed. They glinted with a dangerous force as they observed her. Isabella took a step back, nearing her mother's bedside. "I do not care much for those who disturb the peace of my patients," the accented voice said. It slipped out in smooth and even tones, as sweet and soft as honey. It was Spanish, Isabella noted. She took one further step back, her brows furrowing in confusion as the woman's face continued to regard her. She could not decide if it was with contempt or wonder.

The woman turned up her aquiline nose proudly, her gray-speckled hair falling out in heaps of its low braid. The crow's feet around her eyes grew deeper as she fixed Isabella with her gaze.

"I am sorry, señora, but Miss Swan wished to see her mother," Fawkes interrupted the tense and silent interaction between the two women. He did not know if they would burst out into a chuckle or claw at each other's throats.

But now, the brow of the woman arched in a delicate curve as her hands rested on her narrow hips. "Swan?" she whispered—mostly to herself.

"How does my mother fare?" the young woman asked with honest anxiety, letting her true feelings show for the first time. But the silver-haired woman would not speak. She looked at the intruder with more interest now.

Isabella Swan had indeed seen better days. Her dark hair was loose, long since fallen out of its coiffeur. Her light-green brocade gown had stains and smudges of dirt and dust on it. It had even been torn in some places. Her slippers were caked with mud and the slight circles under her eyes spoke of some sleepless nights. But in her air, there was still a sense of ease—as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. It should be expected, she had just escaped the clutches of impending misery and heartache to be sure. What the woman could gather from her extensive overview of the young lady was that she was at ease being at the camp.

"Your mother is a strong woman and she will recover," she finally said. The tension washed away as quickly as it had emerged. Isabella could not be certain, but she thought she saw a glint of approval in those raven eyes that had cut into hers just a few moments prior.

The young woman's gaze shifted back to her mother. "It is you I have to thank, then, for caring for her?" Isabella took her mother's hand in her own and squeezed it. It was good to know that they were safer now. There was time for rest—finally.

A delicate black eyebrow rose on the tan forehead. "I did nothing. These woods hold a power of their own and they did much to wash away the darkness of Wessport," the Spanish woman answered enigmatically. "Sometimes, the ailment lies not in our flesh and bone, but in our soul."

Chocolate eyes searched the resting form of her mother. "Wessport must have been dreadful for her—all alone," she mumbled to herself distantly. Isabella clasped the hand harder. What would have happened if she had stayed? Could all of this have been avoided? Was it her fault that Victoria had succeeded in claiming Wessport and the crown? Was Jasper dead because of her capture? Perhaps nothing of this would have happened if she could have fought against Braun. If Edward had never left to rescue her, things might have turned out quite differently.

She thought back to her time in Braun's grasp. She had never really made any real attempt to escape. There had been plenty of times for her to throw herself into the waters. Isabella could swim, but something had stopped her from leaving.

Her petty will for revenge had made her make foolish decisions. Were these the consequences of such actions? Was this the bittersweet outcome of what she had done? The questions jumbled into a strange mess within her mind and a sudden headache claimed her.

Raven eyes still observed her from the shadows. "Sometimes we do not realize ourselves that we hold such ailment," the accented voice offered. The smooth tones settled her somewhat. They calmed her inner battle for a moment to allow the young woman a clear train of thought.

"Forgive me, the journey here has been long, and my fatigue has gotten the better of me. I am grateful to see my mother in good hands. Might I know the name of the woman who has bestowed such peace to her features again?" she inquired with the usual politeness she was expected to have.

But the woman ignored her request. "There are few wounded here and many cots to spare. Matilda," she turned around to one of the nuns. "Bring some tea for our guest."

"I do not really have the time to—"

"What ails you is far beyond my reach. But I suspect your dreams haunt you to the point where sleep is no longer a comfort nor a wish for you to have." Isabella's lips turned into a thin line as the color drained slightly from her face. The raven eyes stared past her crafted mask and into her soul—as if she knew every miniscule thought. "What you need is rest," she said flailing with her arm lazily as the nun returned with a small metal cup of an amber liquid. "Drink this and thank me later," the woman said.

Fawkes, who had witnessed the whole thing could not help but agree with the intriguing woman. "She knows what she speaks of. Listen to her and you will not regret it," he smiled. Isabella reasoned that if Fawkes trusted the woman, so could she.

A small shuteye could not hurt.

She sat down on the cot next to her mother, ignoring her stiff limbs protesting in the process. She accepted the cup from the nun and drank a small sip. "All of it," the Spaniard smirked with her hands still on her hips. Isabella frowned at the bitter taste but did as the woman bade. Frankly, she would not protest if she could offer her just a few hours of rejuvenating rest. She drank it all, until the last drop. Isabella lay down on the cot and already felt the blanket of sleep drag over her.

"But you…never told me…what…your…name…" she drifted off groggily after a while, her eyelids turning into lead.

The woman leaned forward and as Isabella's eyes shut and sleep overtook her, she heard a name in the distance as she drifted into the comforting arms of a dreamless sleep.

"Sofia"

* * *

"Her Highness is tired and needs rest, my lord," Edward said as Rosalie had been taken to her quarters. They had all seen the exhaustion and anxiety plastered on her features as Isabella and Fawkes left Athar's tent.

"She does not have much time, Victoria could be marching on us at this very moment," Saxton said as he leaned against the table.

Athar put up his hands in defeat. "You have crossed a large part of the country to get here, I understand your fatigue. But Saxton is right. We need to be ready for when Victoria comes." A flicker of exhaustion washed over Athar's features and Edward realized the old lord must've been crushed by the burden he'd carried for the past few months.

"Before we continue, I need to know everything. I need to know how it is that you came to be just here—why Saxton is here, what we do from now on," Edward said. "We need to form a plan, and a good one at that."

"I agree with you, we cannot blindly start a fight with Victoria without an objective first," Athar nodded.

The masked man walked over to a chair and sat down, taking care in not showing his own drained state. "I suspect things went sour when I left," he trailed off.

Athar shook his head, sitting down next to him. "Do not blame yourself, we all thought we had avoided a disaster. And Braun stole what was precious from you—if it had been my Eleanora I would have acted the same."

"Where is Braun now?" Saxton asked, leaning to face them.

"Dead," Edward answered brusquely. He did not like to remember how the fool had succumbed—by Isabella's own hand. She feigned as if it did not affect her, but he knew it did.

Saxton nodded. "Good," he answered darkly.

"I suspect you had no love for that man," Edward deadpanned.

Emmett's eyes narrowed as he stared into empty space. "He is one of the reasons I lost everything. Well, partially the reason anyway. Lord Alistair is the head culprit of it all," he growled to himself.

"Whom you could have mentioned before sending me off to Wessport," Edward answered heatedly. It was obvious that Saxton had known much more than letting on before letting Edward go to Wessport.

Two dark and somber eyes caught his and the charming and arrogant façade washed away to reveal a dark and troubled interior. "Alistair is _mine_. I will be the one to take him down—no one else."

Edward knew what Saxton had suffered. His whole family had been killed due to Alistair, Braun, and Victoria. "Did you know?" Edward asked after a while.

"Know what?"

"That it was Victoria all this time." Athar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Victoria might feign that she had taken the crown out of noble reasons. But those in Raven's Grove who had fled there had slowly puzzled together the enigma. The conspirator had been the princess, she had reached for the crown, eager to obtain the power it possessed.

The murderous lust in Emmett's eyes was extinguished. "No. My wife would never tell me who it was—afraid we might be found out and that the princess would publicly have us sentenced for treason. But, in the end, it all ended up as she feared, and I took the whole weight of the blame for it." Saxton scratched his head and let a sigh escape him. "And I dragged Charles Swan into this whole mess."

"Isabella can never know, Saxton," Edward murmured. "She thought Lord Braun was the sole culprit of her father's demise and he is dead now—a weight lifted off her shoulders. Let us keep it that way." He did not wish to see her burdened by frustration and revenge again.

"As you wish," Saxton answered.

"But Emmett gave me enough information to at least know there was something wrong," Athar added. "We would have been caught by surprise if you had never reached out to me," he said to Saxton.

"And after informing Athar, you realized I should go to Wessport as well?" Edward asked.

"They were already keeping an eye on you," he answered, thinking of Alan Moore, the spy. "It made sense to take you into the fold. Although I must add, I did not much trust you in the beginning," Saxton chuckled.

"I wonder why," Edward muttered as Saxton's eyes briefly glanced at the mask.

"Had that gypsy not insisted, however, I might never have pestered you as much as I did."

Edward straightened in the chair. "Gypsy?"

"Aye, it is quite the tale. You see, just before you arrived into our forest past winter, a woman haplessly wandered into our camp. We wanted to send her away at first until she proved quite useful in the art of healing. She took care of our wounded, you see. And the day I first met you in the forest, she revealed that she knew you. As time passed, she eventually found out who I really was; who I was supposed to be—a man charged with killing his wife and child. But she did not judge me. She knew that I was innocent from the first time she lay eyes on me. I told her everything," he said as he shivered. "I cannot explain it—but that woman has a _way_ about her that just makes you tell her _everything_."

Edward's jaw grew tenser and tenser until he thought the bones would break from the pressure. "And what did she do with this information?"

"Well, she told me to ask for your help, of course. I thought her mad at first. But, eventually, I agreed. She said it was important that I send you to Wessport—that you could help."

"Those three bits of advice," Edward started as he got over the initial shock that Sofia had been involved in all of this, "proved to be right. There was secret closely guarded by the court—there still is. The only man I could trust, in the beginning, was indeed Lord Athar. And I have dragged my fiancée down with me."

"Dragged her down? You are too harsh on yourself. All that matters is that you are here, and Her Highness as well. Or Her _Royal_ Highness—we should be using her correct title." Athar stroked his white whiskers as a thought crossed his mind. "We need a plan now—a proper one. Fawkes, Saxton and I have barely been surviving here. We keep to the forest like common thieves, waging a guerrilla campaign against Victoria. We have you now," Athar said. "What should we do next?"

Both the old man and the bandit directed their sole attention to Edward; as if he held all the answers. They trusted blindly in him, trusted that everything would turn out well now that he was there. Edward had never seen such faith in him before. "You think I hold the answer?" he asked, taken aback.

"We do, Cullen. What is the next course of action? I may have fought in battle once, but I am no longer familiarized with it now. I've lived the life of a bandit for too long," Saxton answered.

"You said you had scouts?" He received an eager nod.

"We have three groups all patrolling the main roads."

"It isn't enough. We need lookouts on the edge of the northern part of the forest, as well as someone keeping an eye on Coldwick and New London, in case _she_ decides to arrive by ship. We will also have to set up a system of information. If we are lucky, we might receive help from the villagers. There should also be someone reporting from each post every other day. Groups of four men should be sent and often exchanged."

"But we are so few, how can we spare men for such a thing?" Athar asked. "Is it not better to have them all here?"

"And do what?" Edward asked. "We cannot yet face Victoria in an open field, so the soldiers would only be sitting around doing little. It is better if they are dispatched to certain areas of the forest. This is our battleground, for now, let us map it out into the smallest detail. We need to be ready. We need to know exactly when and where we want to meet Victoria; when the time comes."

The more he spoke, the brighter the sparkle in both Athar and Saxton's eyes. They nodded like eager schoolchildren, hanging onto every word that he said.

"And we need to train the men," Edward said after a while, their plan for securing the borders of Raven's Grove taking root. "I understand some of them joined you, Lord Athar, when you left Wessport—as well as with Fawkes. But many of them seem to be mere guards or farmers, never having fought a battle in their lives. We will train daily, see what they are made of—divide them into groups based on their skills."

"But even a small force—trained as it might be—will not stand a chance against Victoria, will it?" Athar asked.

"There might be a chance if she blindly charges at us. If we are resourceful we will prosper."

"We are scarcely five hundred men who can fight. Eight hundred counting the women and children," Saxton whispered. "I understand what you plan, Cullen, but we need more men."

"I agree, which is why one of you must ride with Rosalie Fell to the lords here in the south and convince them to join our cause," he said.

"And what if they apprehend us?" Athar asked. He was not too eager leaving the safety of the forest. It was only wanting. Athar had been wise in remaining within the shield Raven's Grove offered. But now was the time to step forward and take action.

"You sent them letters of plea before. Letters, my lord, are easy to dismiss. The lords are scared and unwilling to get entangled in this mess. But you, Athar, know more than anyone what happens if Victoria remains on the throne. If you go with Rosalie, I know many will answer the call this time. Unfortunately, they do it for their own skin, not for a sense of loyalty or honor," he muttered to himself.

Saxton straightened up. "It is time we reveal to the lords exactly who Victoria Fell is." Edward knew they were not in on the whole truth. There were still parts of Victoria, actions she had committed, that were shrouded in secrecy.

"It is Rosalie who will do that. It is her sister she is to fight, after all."

"Then let me set my men to work all at once. We are not enough to watch over the whole forest, but we shall keep guard on the north if you take care of the south," he said as he rushed away, eager to get started.

Edward stared after the man he had come to know as arrogant. The arrogance was barely there anymore. He suspected Saxton had never really been such, only feigned whenever in Edward's presence.

"I am grateful that you came here, Cullen." Athar entwined his hands in the folds of his robes, catching Edward's gaze with his own. He would not say it, but the masked man looked troubled. When he had first met Edward Cullen a few years ago, he had seemed a dangerous and angry man, always sulking and glooming. But, while his sour and dark mood seemed washed away, something new had emerged—an inner battle.

When Edward did not speak, Athar got out of the chair as well. "Come," he said with a nod of his head. "Follow me."

He got out of the tent, letting sunlight spill in. Edward followed and kept his eyes trained solely on Athar's back, avoiding the stares he got from the soldiers as he passed them. They walked past the military camp, to where the trees met the meadow. A group of men sat by the stream, munching on some bread while they went over some maps. Another one was sharpening his knife, his head never looking up to distract him from his task.

As soon as Edward came into view, a dark-haired young man with kind eyes shot up from where he sat, his mouth filled to the brim with unchewed bread. Crumbs had fallen on his doublet and shirt. His clothes were wrinkled but otherwise clean.

"Edward?!" Jacob exclaimed in utter surprise. He swallowed hard, almost choking on the bread as it did not quite go down as smoothly as he had expected. He had not been notified when the masked man had arrived at camp. They had been on the other side, parted from the rest of the soldiers, thus never seeing them waltz in.

The man sharpening his knife, leaning against the wide trunk of a tree, stopped his motion, never looking up. But his lips pressed together as his hands shook slightly.

Edward was not surprised to find them there. It was almost expected. Where else would Jacob and Carlisle have gone?

"Hello, Jacob," Edward said as the younger man rushed over to his friend. Pure joy displayed on Jacob's features as he gave the masked man a big embrace, patting him on the back. The other men stared at the scene in disbelief. Athar chuckled slightly to himself. "Carlisle," Edward said as he directed his gaze to the sitting man. They had parted wrongly, and he suspected the proud blond would still be sour with him.

But it was not the case. Carlisle put aside the knife and went over to his friend. There was a moment where they simply looked at one another as if awaiting the reaction of the other. But it was Carlisle who spoke up first. "Glad to see you here," he said in his baritone voice. It was stiff and formal as if they had never known each other before.

Jacob scoffed at them. "One would think this was the first time you saw each other. Come now, stop behaving like children." Edward, Carlisle, and Athar all rose an eyebrow at the remark. It was strange that it would be Jacob, out of all people, that would set them straight.

"He is right, Edward—"

"It is in the past, let's leave it there," Edward said in a lower voice so that the others might not hear. The words brought an embarrassed smile to the other man. He nodded, and they clasped the other's hand.

"It is good to have you back."

"It is good to be back."

* * *

A sigh of pooling water emerged. A brush against her cheek tickled. Sandalwood, leather, and pine filled her nostrils as the light was shadowed behind her eyelids.

She had not slept so well in a long time and Isabella forced her eyes to flutter open. Blurry images started to sharpen as she detected a figure by the side of her bed, blocking out the invasive light of the sun.

It was him, her Edward. His eyes set upon her with something she could not read. It was a look she had never before seen in him. But the gentle caress told her all she needed to know.

"How long was I asleep?" she asked as she hastened to sit up, but he pushed her back down.

"You can sleep more," he said—the tones vibrating through the air. They were left to themselves. Isabella's senses grew alert now, having forgotten where she was. The tent was a strange place to her and it took a few seconds to steady herself. The white fabric-walls were thin, billowing in the faint wind and letting sunbeams filter in. Her mother lay to their left, still asleep.

The other patients lay to the far end of the hospital. A fabric screen had been set up to allow them some privacy. Yet, Isabella could see the curious shadows of the nurses and nuns as they would turn their attention to them every so often. She guessed it was Edward's presence.

Her hand went to the black mask and she caressed him through it. "Not when you are here," she whispered. Isabella sat up and leaned against him. She did not know when they would have time for each other again and she relished in the peaceful moment between them. "How long have you been here?" she asked against his chest. They sat there, a moment surrounded by light and relished in a feeling of comfort. The immediate danger was behind them. Her chest swelled, the two were reunited and had put their differences aside. But much was still left to speak of.

Like her feelings for him.

Isabella now knew what it was. But she feared to say the word—even thinking it. Would the world be cruel enough to take him away from her too? If she lost Edward it would be the last straw. The young brunette pressed closer to him and listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the dark doublet. She shivered as he spoke, the voice rumbling against her ear deliciously. "I just arrived. Jacob and Carlisle brought me," he said against her hair.

She straightened up. "Carlisle and Jacob are here?" she asked, surprised.

"They joined as soon as they could," he smiled absently. "I think Jacob especially wishes to see you," he added.

"And I both him and Carlisle. It has been too long," she sighed. Her heartbeat increased as she suddenly remembered.

"A woman—a gypsy is here, by the name of Sofia. Could she possibly be your—"

"It is her," Edward cut off. She could not read his countenance, not behind that mask. But there was some definite tension there.

"Have you…spoken with her yet?" The absence of a response answered her question. Isabella frowned. "Why not?"

"It is…complicated. I feel betrayed by her, manipulated in some sense. Through her action, I feel like she made me go to Wessport, made me end up at court when she knew I never wanted that," he said distantly.

Isabella looked down at her hands. His own gloved ones rested in his laps. She took his right hand and put it in her own. It was much larger than hers. She started tracing the glove, her lips pressing together. "I shall not press on the matter. But she seemed to mean a lot to you at one point," the young woman started. Her eyes drifted to her sleeping mother. She had lost one parent and had been afraid she could have lost the other. Isabella remembered well how Sofia had looked at Isabella and Lady Renée, a deep set of emotions suppressed at the scene of loving mother and daughter. Her chocolate eyes came to meet his forest greens, avoiding a shiver at the intensity hiding beneath the surface.

Edward shook his head slowly. "There are many things I do not know anymore," he sighed. He squeezed her hands in his own, not afraid to share some of the growing conflict within him. "I thought I knew Victoria and look how she turned out. I thought I knew Sofia and she went behind my back for unknown reasons."

Isabella moved in closer. "Then ask her, Edward. Ask her why she is here, why she followed you, why she got in the middle of all this. Set aside your pride and ask."

He was about to answer her when one of the nurses pushed aside the curtain with her eyes steadfast on the ground. Isabella went to sit further from Edward.

She had no idea why a nurse would interrupt them so unless something required Edward's immediate presence. Isabella feared the worst then—that Victoria's forces were already there. But no. It was a completely different situation.

Isabella straightened up as she saw her, her mouth dropping and her eyes widening as she stood up.

"My lady," the woman said as she curtsied low. Her hands were folded respectfully in front of herself and she did not dare look Isabella in the eye.

The young raven-haired woman rushed to her, something akin to joyful tears threatening to escape her. Edward stood up in haste, caught off guard by the presence of the nurse.

Isabella pushed aside all decorum, embracing her long-lost friend. She hugged Alice so hard that she thought she would break in two. She thought her old maid would try to slip out of the hug when two arms embraced her back.

And Alice did indeed cry. "I did not wish to interrupt or insult you, my lady. But I had to see you," Alice excused herself. Isabella broke off the hug to get a good look at her friend.

"I have never been happier to see you, Alice," she answered.

Alice turned to face Edward and curtsied once more before him. "I truly beg for your forgiveness, my lord. But when I heard of your presence here, I sought you both out." She turned to Isabella.

"Last I heard of you, Lord Braun had kidnapped you after having tried to storm the palace and take down King Jasper," she said. "But it seems you were returned, my lady—"

"I am not your lady anymore, Alice. You are not in my service now, but an equal… a friend if you will it. Please, call me Isabella."

Alice's eyes flickered to the ground. It had taken a lot of courage to go there. But how could she not? Was it not better to meet under these circumstances than to happen upon each other? She was prepared now. She just hadn't expected to walk in on such a tender moment. Alice had not stopped to pause and think what was going on behind the curtains.

Edward slipped out unnoticed, thinking it best for the two to reunite alone, just as he had been able to do with Jacob and Carlisle after initially having met.

Both women started talking, hearing what the other had gone through. Alice and Isabella sat down on her cot, a strange nostalgic feeling washing over them. It felt like old times as if Alice had never been dismissed.

Isabella told her of her kidnapping, of her time in Constantinople and of Melike. She retold of her rescue and how Edward had rushed to save her. The passion and genuine warmth of her eyes melted Alice's heart when she realized the love Isabella held for the masked man. As they talked more, Isabella found it therapeutic to open up. She told her friend everything, not afraid to hold back. She even revealed how she had killed Braun and how she had enjoyed it. The young woman had shivered as she was reminded of the pleasant feeling rushing through her as the life went out in Braun's eyes. Alice had taken her hand and told her it was past now.

Isabella asked what had become of Alice after they had dismissed her. Alice said her story was far more uneventful. She had traveled to Coldwick and worked for a seamstress in exchange for lodging and food. When Victoria had taken the throne and Athar had fled to Raven's Grove she gave it little thought and joined him, saying how she hoped that she could help in the fight—however small her contribution might be. Isabella revealed Jasper' execution and how Rosalie Fell had fled down to the forest with them and that a war might be approaching.

"I can remain happy now, my la—miss. I am where I should be and that is all that matters. I know this is my place, helping you, Lord Cullen and Her Highness. And I know we shall win."

"How can you be so certain?" Isabella asked. The blind faith Alice held was inspiring. She wished she could believe as much as the young woman before herself did.

"Because I just know. I might not know much about politics, of intrigues or wars, but I choose to trust in those who do. And I trust that Edward Cullen and Rosalie Fell will get us through this. And Her Highness will bring about a new era for Angloa."

They continued speaking in the enclosed area of the tent. Edward had stepped outside unnoticed. There would be a time for him and Isabella. A time when they could confess all to each other. She had seen who he was and accepted him, it could only get better from here. Isabella proved to be a great support, proved to know and understand him when he could not even understand himself.

He hid behind the hospital, relishing in the momentary peace. Being alone was better, away from the stares filled with a mix of wonder, fear, and curiosity. But indeed, the fear that had once been so present in those who saw him was slowly wasting away. He did not inspire the same fright as he once had. It had been replaced by something else, something akin to respect, perhaps. But he accepted it, and also accepted that it would be worse were he ever to remove the mask. Something Edward had no plans to do. He could still see the sorrow in Isabella's eyes as her hand caressed him through her leather. The prison was growing, extending around her now as well. It was a thin shield separating them and he did not know what to do about it. One thing Edward was certain of was that they could not live like that for the rest of their lives. Or… maybe it was he who couldn't.

Footsteps alerted him to someone nearing. The masked man turned around heftily. His face twisted with mixed emotions as he saw her. Wind gently dragged at her hair. She dressed in a dark linen gown and a stained white apron. Her hair was loose, the wild locks tumbling around her wrinkled face like a silver crown.

She looked beautiful, Edward noted, despite her age. Behind the hospital they stood in silence, almost at the edge of the forest, shielded by the trees stretching over them, shadowing them. He had not seen Sofia in months, half a year at most. The gypsy observed him in silence. But something burdened her.

To think that she had played a big role in his return to Wessport and in his involvement with the rebels made Edward more confused. He did not know if he should be angry or surprised.

"I understand you have met Miss Swan," he said coldly after some time had passed.

"Smarter than I thought, that one. She has tact," Sofia commended.

Edward dropped his tense shoulders. He had no mind for witty word games. Not anymore. He was sick and tired of the constant outthinking, of the outwitting he had had to witness at court. He did not wish to relive the same thing with Sofia. "Why are you here?"

Sofia put up her hands, strolling closer to him. Her face as enigmatically hard and difficult to read as his mask. "Straight to the point, as always."

"You didn't answer my question."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Because I was needed, Edward." Sofia pointed to the hospital tent with the big black cross. "Because I can help."

"And getting involved in other people's business is also your way of helping them?" he growled, his voice gaining strength as his anger finally showed through.

She stepped in closer, her indifferent exterior finally replaced by seriousness. "I know what Claudine and your mother wanted for you. I never sought out Saxton to try to manipulate you back to court. But when you decided to return to Angloa, to enter the world of court—of nobility and intrigue, I wanted to warn you. I knew you would never listen to me. You never have, so preparing you through Saxton was the only logical thing to do."

Edward had never felt so insulted. Sofia, if anyone, knew how hard he had tried to forget who he was. But the sentiment weighed him down. How could he ever accept her involvement in all of it? "And now you want me on the throne, is that it? Are you just another player, moving me around like a chess piece on the board?"

"You know that is not true, Edward," Sofia argued back. Her silver hair shook with her as she herself started getting frustrated. There was something more she wanted to express, but the old woman stopped herself short, biting her tongue.

"No, I don't know!" he growled.

Sofia stepped in closer as her features softened. "I let you choose, Edward—always. I never once got in the way of your decisions. When you wanted to return to Angloa I did not get in the way. And when you chose that Cadherra girl, I never once told you how truly foolish it was for you to wed her, to enter court." Her voice was but a whisper now. "How you could get found out."

Edward had squared his jaw and his hands had clenched into fists. "I do not need your approval for marrying her."

Sofia laughed: a sad thing that enveloped them in a summer melancholia. "I like her and if things were different, I would wholeheartedly encourage the union."

"She knows who I am."

Sadness invaded the raven eyes. "Then she knows the danger she is in."

"She doesn't care."

"But you care."

"I will not leave her." Not again, he thought.

"A war is coming, you cannot flee, you will not flee now. And you will not send her away." Sofia knew he would never do such a thing. "A war is not easily won, Edward. You of all people should know that."

"You are right, I will not leave Rosalie to face our sister alone. And I will not abandon Isabella or the others," he growled, now standing so close to the shorter woman that he could almost hear her erratic heart beating from their argument.

"And what about you?" she asked. The question confused him, and Sofia read his confusion through the mask. "You keep listing arguments of why you are staying behind and helping, but none of those arguments are for you. What do _you_ want?"

She had been the first person to ask him that. She had been the first person to care about his personal opinion. "It doesn't matter," he muttered.

"Of course it does!" she snapped.

He sighed, the anger washing away. Before him, he no longer saw some meddling old woman. He saw a woman set to care for him, whatever it took. If either Claudine or Leonore were alive, he was sure they would be beyond happy with how Sofia had protected him so far. She was genuinely concerned for him and only wanted the best for him—like a true mother would. "I want peace for Angloa—true peace. I never knew my father; only what others have told me about him. But I know the vision he had for this country and I know it was the right vision. I want Angloa to be a safe-haven for people like us. I want my family to finally put its past behind it and not be burdened by greed, lust, and power. I have been naïve and led myself to believe that part of my family could be saved. It has destroyed itself from within. My sister killed her own cousin for the crown. I had the luxury of growing up outside of court, away from the burdens of the crown and what it represents. But I know while Victoria should never be queen, Rosalie can help make our father's vision a reality. I trust in her."

His words brought the old woman to a halt. She had not expected such a truthful response. She went up to him, knowing there was nothing to argue against such heartfelt words. "How can I argue against that, Edward?" she asked in Spanish. He did not answer her but instead looked away. Sofia bit her lip. "May your mother forgive me if anything happens to you," she sighed.

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter there for you. So glad to see so many coming back for the final fic! Hold on to your hats 'cause you are indeed in for a ride fellow readers. Let me know if there is something I have missed, names I have mixed up or overlooked, grammar, spelling, etc. I appreciate it. Thank you so much for all the kind reviews. I am now settled in and starting to get warm in this schedule!**

 **If you enjoyed it please leave a little review :)**

 **Cheers!**


	3. Chapter 3

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 3_

 _June 10_ _th_ _, 1520 - Wessport_

Victoria stared at the gardens, the twitter of a distant birdsong floated through the lazy afternoon air. The waft of the garden flowers was not pleasant to her but seemingly grew too invasive, bringing about a headache.

The queen of Angloa looked to the empty distance, her shoulders slumped as the man before her kept reading the continuous reports. The wine swished around in her cup as she took another sip.

They were preparing for war—a war that she hoped would never come to be. She had come to power, yet it had not brought more joy to her than before. She continuously drank the wine. A large sip this time.

After having killed her cousin, after she was back in her chambers, she had broken down, realizing her mistake. In a brash moment, she had done the unthinkable. And the cost was indeed grave, it had sent her sister away. Rosalie had left her side, and with good reason. The last person close to her was gone, away and probably gathering an army of her own. Or perhaps she had been duped into abandoning her. Victoria's lips quivered as she pressed them against the cup.

She had little to say about Edward Cullen. The man who had betrayed her. He had run away, taking Isabella Swan. Victoria frowned. She never thought it would be like this—that he would ever come to love the woman in such a way. It stung a little. And contempt started rising in her chest as she thought about Swan.

Despite having broken his word, the whisperings about him were still positive. The news her informants brought her was not good. The people of Wessport drank to his health, saying he would help Athar and Rosalie take back the Angloa they had never known. The older citizens of Wessport would go on a nostalgic spree, reminiscing about the past, about the days of Philip Fell. Victoria was losing grasp of the citizens rather quickly. Her scare tactics had turned against her.

She finally put up a hand. The time for brute force was over, she thought. Lord Savoie stopped reading the various reports. "Your Majesty?" he hesitated.

"That is all good and well, my lord. But I want you to get a small group of men loyal to us. I want you to gather the Assembly and bring those men."

"Are we recruiting forces from the south, Your Majesty? I remember we spoke about it a few days ago but determined it would be too risky getting that close to Raven's Grove."

"No," she shook her head. "We are not. Make sure the Assembly is gathered before the day is over," was all she left him with before getting up. Savoie leaned back in the garden chair and massaged his temples. They never knew what the queen was thinking. He wondered what her plan would be this time.

 _June 15_ _th_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

The same day Rosalie Fell, Thomas Athar and Theodor Glovendale set out on their long campaign trail to gather support, was also the same day that Anthony Fawkes and Edward Cullen started training the men at camp.

The masked man, now once more turned into a general, was set to bring about order and stability to the military camp. The men were more than eager to follow him. The first day he put them through a set of exercises to see what they were capable of. There was a lack of horses and, thus, only the best riders made it into the cavalry. Barely fifty men managed to join the unit. Edward had Carlisle train them further in more detail, seeing as Carlisle was quite a skilled rider himself. Edward knew he put the unit in good hands.

They had little to no guns and only those already familiar with the weapon would join the artillery platoon, headed by Emmett Saxton.

To their benefit, the scouting unit was already formed. Saxton's men, the dwellers of Raven's Grove, knew the forest like the back of their hand. And they divided into smaller groups and were sent out to different posts to keep a good lookout in the north.

Some more of the foot-soldiers joined some bandits in the south. Each of the groups had a horse. Every week, each group would send a messenger with reports of the frontier. It would prepare the leaders of the army in case any unusual activity occurred outside of the forest. Some villages north of Raven's Grove, in Sorossa, had even agreed to help them, informing them of what they heard in their villages.

Lastly came the largest unit of the camp, the infantry. Edward and Fawkes took charge of the vast unit. It made up eighty percent of their whole force. Most of the men did not even know how to brandish a sword and, so, the training began. Every morning, with the rise of the sun, Edward would start with the first group, consisting of little less than two hundred men. He would walk them through formations, fighting styles and signals they should look out for. When the first group was done, Fawkes took them and started teaching them hand-to-hand fighting while Edward went through the same routine with the second group. They would spend most of the day in such a manner.

There was no time for Edward and Isabella to be alone. Since becoming the confidant to the princess, she had gotten her own tent. But Isabella had insisted Alice join her, not as a servant, but as her friend. While Rosalie was gone, she would venture to the makeshift hospital and help Sofia with whatever she could. It was soon that Isabella helped the other women get more structured so that there would be no fighting when people should eat or when they could wash. She set up a strict schedule that everyone followed. Sofia took a fast liking to her and it was soon that her mother, Lady Renée, started recovering her strength.

Renée, who had been so sick and bedridden—barely lucid for the past few weeks—was still quite confused as to where she was. But, slowly, her health returned to her with the help of Sofia.

The camp worked meticulously like a machine and the days passed by in a fleeting moment. They were so consumed by their tasks that they never realized they had not a moment for themselves.

It was late evening when Edward found her mending a soldier's torn shirt by a leaning tree, parted slightly from the rest of the camp. Isabella found this solitude to be a breath of fresh air from the constant and never-ending pace of daily life.

He walked up to her, admiring her where she sat. Her face had gotten even more sun-kissed since their arrival. Her chestnut hair took on a lighter sheen and he had never seen her so beautiful as then. The worries of her kidnapping seemed washed away and she looked at peace for the first time in a long time. Edward did not wish to disturb her, but he had wanted a moment alone with her for such a long while that he finally made his presence known. In the purple color of twilight, he cleared his throat, making her jump at the sudden sound. Isabella looked up and smiled when she was met with the familiar black mask.

She put the shirt away and went over to him. "If it is not General Cullen," she teased. She walked up to him with the familiarity of a lover, placing her arms over his shoulders and clasping them behind his neck. He placed his hands on her waist and let a small smile show. She did not tease him more, nor disrupt their moment by speaking. There was only them and the gentle summer evening. The sun had set a few minutes earlier and its light had already left a trail of stars. She looked up briefly at the heavens and was reminded of the night sky of Constantinople.

"Will your not soldiers miss you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I missed you more," he answered bluntly. His husky voice sent shivers through her, causing her to look up at him. A smile spread on her lips as a blush accompanied it. Without a word she let him lead her wherever he pleased.

Edward led them into the woods, keen on not being seen at that moment. In the depths of the darkness, their privacy would be guarded by the thick foliage of the tree crowns. He removed his gloves so that he might feel the silk of her hair glide between his fingers. Isabella's heart sped up as he touched her in a light manner; as if she were made of glass. She had missed this human contact from him. The moment his ungloved hand slid past her cheek a spark of electricity sprung between them. His hands kept trailing along her back, past the knot of the stained white apron as his lips lowered to her awaiting face, her own eager from the pending kiss.

It had been too long since he last tasted her sweet lips with his own. Soft and warm, tasting of forest fruits and sunlight. Edward's hand was lost in her tresses as the kiss intensified. Isabella answered him as eagerly as he kissed her back. There was more passion in their kiss than they had ever noted before. She pressed hard against him, delighting when a soft and husky moan escaped him. The world was theirs at that moment, the woods their haven. He gently pushed her against the trunk of a leaning tree, stabilizing them both. Isabella's knees had grown weak as his kisses grew more and more intense. She was surprised when a moan of her own escaped her. She broke apart from him, her breathing labored and deep. He pressed his forehead against her and brushed her cheek.

They stood like that for a while, content in each other's arms. She listened to his deep breathing, lulled into a sense of security. The sweet scent of her hair mixed with the fragrance of a calm summer evening.

"You know," he said after a long while in the same dark and husky voice. It was nearly dark, but they could so clearly see each other. The stars shone brightly in the sky, even brighter in the absence of the moon. It was only a thin crescent strip of light on the dark sky, penetrating through the leaves. "I never really _asked_ you to marry me." She could hear the hint of a smile in his voice and Isabella looked up to meet his eyes.

"Are you asking me now?" she wondered.

It was the perfect setting. The evening pressed into full-on night. They pondered Edward's statement. Their engagement had never really been her choice. Edward had accepted it by request of King Jasper, but he had done it more out of impulse than out of want to marry her. However, things had changed now. Both could long for nothing more. They had shown their true selves to the other, learned to overcome obstacles and be truthful. It seemed a certainty that they were to be married. But between having been kidnapped and returning to a chaotic court, there had never been a time for that. In fact, there had scarcely been time for both to be together. For the last few months, they had been apart. While it had strengthened their relationship, both still found the other to be a stranger. The jump from having utterly feared Edward to now deeply caring for him had been a large and hasty one. They knew, however, that they could never be parted again. They had to be with the other. It came as natural as breathing or drinking.

"Will you marry me?" he asked after a while. The question was strange, for Isabella came from a world where she wouldn't usually have the say. Had her father been alive, he would have struck a deal with some nobleman's son for her hand. Of course, Charles Swan would have made sure that Isabella's intended would have been an agreeable match. But she would never have been able to express her own want. And now he stood here before her, her Edward, _asking_ her if she wanted to marry him. He did not demand, he did not take it for granted—he _asked_. The level of respect he was showing her blew Isabella away to such lengths that she did not realize she had not yet answered him. His eyes squinted, a gesture he would do whenever he was irritated or, in this case, worried. "Isabella?"

"You know I will," she breathed, her voice shaking. He scooped her into his arms and held her, never wanting to let go of that tender moment. They did not know when or how they would wed, but they had made a vow that they would fulfill.

A voice called out in the night, someone nearing their hideout. Edward and Isabella broke their hug and she scooped up the shirt she had been mending as she left the woods. Alice called out louder for her, afraid something might have happened to her as the sun started setting. The brunette turned around one more time, giving a teasing smile to the man in the black mask. Edward leaned against the tree and watched as she stepped out of the forest, her dress swaying around her feet as she went to meet Alice.

 _June 20_ _th_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

Their network of scouts proved rather effective. Not a week had passed since it had been put into place and already the first scout arrived riding into camp. The alarmed state in his countenance served to alert the rest of them. Rosalie, Athar, and Glovendale were still trying to get the southern noblemen to join their cause and were still out in the open.

The horse hung its head low, looking as if it had not been allowed rest for days. The man did not look better himself. His cloak was muddy, and the shirt drenched in sweat. He had taken off the jerkin, the outer jacket—too warm for such a day. His black hair was wet with his perspiration and when he got off his horse, his knees buckled.

Edward got to him, swiftly followed by Jacob. Many more gathered around in curiosity, wondering what news he might bring. All they had to do was to send each other a knowing look. The news the man brought could only be bad.

"Jacob, give him some water," Edward instructed as he told the man to sit down and catch his breath. The man did not argue against his order and fell in a heap on the patted-down grass. Jacob pressed his water pouch into the awaiting hands of the scout.

He drank the fresh liquid in big gulps until he had emptied the whole pouch. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and gave it back to Jacob. "There is movement in the south, sir." He paused, leaning forward, almost wheezing. "I have ridden day and night—no rest," he explained. "Forgive my appearance."

Edward remained silent, letting the man catch his breath. Jacob, however, was more impatient for the scout to keep talking. The other men urged him to continue until the masked man sent them a silencing glare.

"We saw a small group of soldiers, heading toward Raven's Grove from Sorise." Edward nodded slowly as he clenched his jaw. Sorise was a larger southern town west from them. Rosalie, Theodor, and Athar must have gone there to speak with the neighboring noblemen. Most living near Sorise had large personal armies and it would be natural for Lord Athar to want to seek them out first. The fact that only a small group of men had traveled toward Raven's Grove did give way for concern. It might be messengers sent by some foolish lord, saying he had the princess and her advisors hostage. Or the news might even be direr than that. No one knew just how faithful the lords were to Victoria—if it was her that they served, or if it was the crown she bore.

"When was this?" Edward asked

"I rode here as fast as we got news from them. Some villagers from Hayes reported their movement—a mere day's ride south from the tree line. That was two days ago."

"We should go there immediately," Jacob added.

"We should," Edward agreed with a grim countenance. To think that a few days ago he and Isabella had renewed their engagement vows, only for him to have to go away again. He turned to the soldier. "I am sorry, but you will have to come back with us. Go to Carlisle Chaeld and have him get you a fresh and saddled horse. Tell him to get himself, me and Jacob horses as well." The scout gave a quick nod, not protesting as his limbs ached while he stood up. He ran to the makeshift stables—an enclosed pasture where the horses could roam freely.

Edward turned to Jacob. "Prepare clothes and provision for a few days, meet me by the pasture as soon as you can."

"Where are you going?" Jacob asked in confusion. The other men started dispersing, for there was nothing more to be gotten from the conversation. The rumors, however, would soon start circulating through the camp.

"I need to speak with Fawkes," Edward shouted as he jogged away from his friend. Jacob sighed and let no time be spilled, quickly heading in the direction of his quarters. They had to act quickly. If Rosalie and her advisors had been captured, there might still be time to deal with the lord who had done it.

But there was someone Edward needed to see before speaking with Fawkes. He went past the military encampment—to where the civilians stayed. He found Isabella's tent. Alice had taken care that all should know who resided with them, having sown the crest of the Swan house into the fabric. The maroon fabric billowed in a long sigh as he stepped into the tent, hoping to find her there.

The hexagonal tent was taller in roof and more structured than those surrounding it. A wide trunk lay in one area. It was mostly empty—as Isabella had not been able to bring with her any clothes from Wessport. A wider cot stood at one end on the carpeted ground. A smaller one was right across from it.

Alice was making the beds, startled when Edward stepped in without announcing himself. "My lord," she exclaimed. "You startled me." Her eyes drifted to the floor.

The last time he had seen her—before her reappearance—Alice had pleaded for Isabella not to let her go as her maid after the fiasco that was the imprisonment of Athar. He understood now that Thorpe had set up the trap and only used Alice as a pawn. Her involvement had not been her fault. He saw how happy Isabella was in her presence and he figured it had been wrong for them to just shove her out of their lives. But perhaps it was for the better, he wondered what would have happened to Alice if she had been with Isabella the day Braun had kidnapped her. Edward had the nagging suspicion that the young maid would not have been taken prisoner as well.

"Forgive me, Alice, that was not my intention," he said. "I came in search of Isabella."

A pensive look invaded Alice's features as she started going over the places where Isabella might be.

"I think she went to the infirmary this morning to care for her mother. I would start looking there," Alice smiled. Edward gave her one of his rare smiles back. It startled the young woman as she had never seen it before.

"Thank you," he offered.

"Not at all, my lord."

"No need for the formality, Alice. You are no longer Isabella's maid," he said. It was in that moment that Alice noticed the change. Edward Cullen was kinder and gentler in his way. He did not appear as the brutish and enigmatic man she had grown so used to. Although his presence had scared her, it was not due to his appearance or general air—just his sudden presence. Alice wondered what had happened to him that had changed him so. Whatever it was, she much preferred it to the gloomy and sulking man from before.

"Very well, _General Cullen_ ," she offered with a shy smile. "You are still a general. I shall not disrespect that by ignoring your title." She curtsied and considered their conversation finished once he left her. Alice turned back to making the bed, already looking forward to the next time she would meet Isabella—there were indeed a lot of things they had to speak of now.

Edward rushed to the infirmary, but she was not there either. Sofia stepped away from a patient and went to him. "Can't keep track of your woman?" she asked with a hand on her hip.

Edward almost rolled his eyes. "My woman?" he mimicked. Sofia nonchalantly waved her hand in the air, dismissing the statement. A few of the women working in the tent stretched their necks to get a glimpse of the masked man. His presence always induced curiosity in the bystanders who had never before seen him—only heard of him.

"Why else would you come?" she added sourly. His mouth pressed into a thin line, not bothering to answer her sarcasm. "Well, she came here. She sat a full hour with her mother." Sofia looked around them, making sure that none could hear what she was about to say. She stepped in closer, her black eyes searching his. "Edward, I think Lady Renée was poisoned," she whispered.

His eyes widened considerably. The nurses and nuns in the tent continued to tend to their patients, never having heard what had been spoken. Edward looked past Sofia, Lady Renée was sitting up, resting in her cot, her hair braided like the other women's. She was mending a piece of cloth—most likely someone's jerkin or shirt. She looked much better, the color had returned to her face and the smile had returned to her lips. But the air of fatigue was still there.

"Are you certain?" he asked slowly. He already had an inkling as to whom it might be, but Edward didn't want to make any hasty presumptions.

"I would stake my life on it. It has been done slowly and over time. Whoever poisoned her knew exactly what they were doing. Lady Renée will recover, but the poison has wreaked havoc on her system. It will take patience and time."

"Does Isabella know this?" he asked. Sofia shook her head. "Does Lady Renée?"

"I think she suspects it was not a normal ailment. But she has not asked me any questions." Sofia noticed his change in demeanor. "You know who it is, don't you," she stated.

"I have a suspect, that is all. If it is who I think it is, that person has done a foul thing to force Isabella and me to come to Wessport."

"The poison would have killed her eventually," Sofia sighed. "Renée Swan is a strong woman who has suffered through a lot."

"As is her daughter, but she does not need to know of this now, at least not until I return. I need to speak with Lord Athar and Her Royal Highness of this."

Sofia nodded, understanding what he meant. She wiped her hands on her apron and pushed a stray lock out of her face. "Your Isabella went in the direction of the river, past the kitchens, last I saw her—you might want to try there."

He started heading for the river. Before going down to the stream, he figured it might be a good idea to look for her inside the kitchen tent.

He pushed past the modest trappings of the tent. It was a small area with a center where a large pot simmered away over a fire. A rotund priest sat close to the concoction, stirring it occasionally. He was a friar, dressed in a habit with only a cord as a belt around his large belly. He was wider than he was tall with brown hair, cut close to his scalp.

Edward neared him. "Friar," he started, not wanting to startle the older man. He looked up and met Edward's eyes. He did not jump in surprise nor shy away as so many others would do. Instead, his brown eyes creased at the edges when he smiled. His big, brown eyes reminded of a gentle deer and when Edward neared, a faint waft of honey traveled through the air, cutting through the meaty and hearty smell of the broth. His pudgy fingers were clasped in front of his protruding stomach, patiently waiting for Edward to continue. "I am searching for Isabella Swan and was told she had come here," Edward began. The short fellow nodded as if understanding. "I have not seen her, I am afraid. She might have passed here, but it must have been when I was away." Edward nodded in silent thanks. Whenever the friar spoke, a calm settled. His voice was soothing, sounding like a kind uncle or father. Any second now, Edward was certain the man would offer him some piece of freshly baked bread and tell him tales of old.

But it never came. The friar continued speaking, not quite finished with him. "I do not believe we have met yet, General Cullen," he started.

"We have not," Edward answered. He had little time to make pleasantries with a man of the cloth.

"Maybe you might stop by sometime, taste the mead we make here from my bees' honey? It is excellent and quite alleviating for the soul, I assure you," he said enigmatically as if he knew something Edward did not.

Edward stared the funny man down with a raised eyebrow. "I had no knowledge that mead was so widely accepted by the church," Edward answered brusquely.

"Well," the friar was patient. "The church and I might disagree on some smaller matters."

"Perhaps one day, friar. But I must go on," he answered back softer this time.

The other only bowed with a faint smirk on his features as Edward left. He walked down to the stream, hoping he would catch Isabella there.

She was helping the women wash, together with a man. He was telling something of a funny nature, for as soon as he had finished, they all laughed. Isabella caught Edward coming and left the wet clothes to go meet him. But, as she walked up to him, she had forgotten her apron by the stream. The man ran after her, eager to hand it to her.

She had just reached Edward, away from the prying eyes of the other women when Edward's and the man's eyes met. Both froze instantly in place—mayhap that the stranger did so a bit more than Edward. Alas, he was no stranger indeed.

It was none other than Alan Moore.

 _June 10_ _th_ _, 1520 – Wessport_

The Assembly chamber was ablaze with worried whispers. What would the power-hungry queen do now? The lords who had stayed behind had regretted their decision. Victoria walked in after having kept them waiting for more than an hour. She wanted them nervous and questioning, it was the only power she had left—fear.

And fear was what now governed her as well.

She had received a letter by a secret messenger not too long ago. The words on the page stared back at her with such malice that it had brought her to her knees. Victoria knew she had brought sorrow and demise to herself. But she still did not understand how her sister could have left her. Surely, Rosalie must have been brainwashed by Lord Athar, General Fawkes, and Edward Cullen—there was no other explanation.

She stared at them for a long time, getting the feel within the room. Lord Alistair stood smugly by her side. Thorpe, who had scarcely shown his face ever since returning from Rome, was there out of sheer will from her part. Alas, he was still reluctant. She knew what kind of a man he was—he switched sides with the flick of a coin. Victoria would take care of him when the time came, but right now she needed him.

Lord Savoie, Launël, and Quinn looked calmer than the rest for they knew they were safe. They made up the queen's inner circle. Last time she had gathered so many of her lords, it had been to announce the trial of her cousin, and they all knew how that ended.

The rest were as nervous as hens—awaiting another slaughter. Ever since Edward Cullen had fled court with her sister, a few other noblemen had left Wessport as well. The ones intercepted by the queen's scouts had been delivered to her dungeons. She had personally overseen their torture and taken care that their dismembered bodies were hung along the middle wall of Wessport. Victoria needed the citizens to understand that, as long as they obeyed her, she would care for them. But if they bit the hand that fed them, her rage would come smacking down on them like a tempest.

"A war is coming, my lords," her powerful voice boomed throughout the chamber. She rested her hands on the armrests and straightened in her chair. Her silk gown pooled around her feet as the jewel necklace around her neck caught the invading sunrays and blinded those who looked upon her. "A war is coming not only from Lord Athar, but I believe that the English have, once more, taken interest in our island," she sighed.

"The English?" one of the lords asked.

"They are seeing this internal strife and mean to use it to invade our shores once more," she lied. She thought back to the letter, back to the threatening words. Victoria had promised to deliver Angloa to them, in exchange for a place on the throne. They were, however, getting impatient, and would soon invade if she did not quickly cement her claim to the crown. "Thus, we do not need a war with Lord Athar right now. We need to stand united against the foreign invasion." She would not give the English an easy fight if they went back on their word. If they settled for another invasion she knew she would never be able to hold the throne—they would cast her aside.

"Your sister and Cullen have joined Lord Athar's forces. She stands against you, my queen," one lord dared say. He received a stern gaze, promptly silencing him.

"My sister has been taken away by men who brainwashed her. She does not know what she is doing—all I want is for her to be returned to me safely." Victoria spoke tenderly of her sister almost as if she were her child. "We must try a diplomatic solution to this before it is too late," Victoria continued.

"You wish to r _eason_ with those traitors?" Alistair spat as he turned around to face her.

"Yes, Lord Alistair, that is precisely what I wish to do. Are there any objections?" she demanded. There wasn't really anything the lords could say against her. Although many did not wish to see an internal conflict between the two sisters, they wished less for another war with England. None spoke out, which made a smug smile appear on Victoria's features. The messenger for her sister was, of course, already prepared. The Assembly had only been a formality for the lords. It started dawning on some of them that what Edward had said was true—the General Assembly had turned into nothing. It was no longer of any use, the lords had all but lost their power as Jasper had made them turn in their armies to the crown—and now Victoria controlled a vast extension of those armies.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you once more for the awesome reviews! Here is another chapter. I hope you enjoyed it!**

 **Cheers!**


	4. Chapter 4

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 4_

 _June 20_ _th_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

It was bizarre, seeing a man who had haunted his dreams for so many months now stand before him. Alan Moore thought he would waste away for the rest of his life in a dungeon cell of Adelton Hall. But Carlisle Chaeld got him out. One cold morning in spring the rusty hinges screamed in protest as the cell opened. And he said his goodbyes to the dungeon. Carlisle left him in the care of Emmett Saxton as if he were some sort of child. Emmett, or Robin as he liked to be called, knew exactly who Alan Moore was. The whole group excluded him as a spy and traitor. Alan thought it strange that a group of bandits and thieves had a sense of "honor".

The days fleeted by in a lazy instant and merged into a hazy dream it seemed. He woke up each morning, ate, worked hard until it was time to sleep. But the essence of Alan Moore had long since left him. The man was merely a shell ever since the war. He had done many things he was ashamed of, many things he would regret. And seeing Edward's face was one of them.

The coup of Wessport took place and, soon, the forest he had gotten so used to, transformed into a military camp. Alan was not allowed to leave, for Saxton did not trust him. And when Fawkes realized who he was, stricter measures were taken against him. Fawkes was now thinking of taking even more measures against the man who had betrayed his fellow countrymen. Alan feared that he was breathing on borrowed time.

But then one man arrived who treated him better than the others. Friar Nicholas was kind, kinder than most. He came one foggy morning with his worn-down wagon, carrying with him some bees and heaps of mead. They all welcomed him and listened to his news of Wessport. Many seemed let down upon hearing that Edward Cullen had sworn allegiance to Queen Victoria.

It was soon that Alan became Nicholas' helper. He helped set up the kitchen tent. He helped set up the beehives so that the bees the friar had brought might have a place to make honey. He started running errands for Nicholas and soon felt that he had gained a place among the rebels of Raven's Grove. Alan grew to feel a strange sense of purpose. He imagined that his actions aided somewhat and contributed positively to the rest of camp. Alan was helping out, putting aside his greed and wants for once. Nicholas had made him an honest man and Alan started coming to terms with his past mistakes.

The old priest noticed how Alan always came every morning with dark circles under his eyes—his nightmares would not allow him peace in his rest. Alan had vowed to himself to never tell of the secret he had witnessed. He would never open his mouth about what he had seen that day when Edward Cullen had discovered him and tortured him on the road to Cadherra. Alas, the moment of Edward's unmasking would replay on repeat in his head each and every night. It was as crystal clear as the water that ran down the stream from the Durun mountains. He would see the face that all Angloans knew—the haunting image of someone dead long ago—the eerie likeness of a ghost: the face of Philip Fell. His mind could not understand it, and Alan feared what he did not understand. He never told Nicholas exactly what he had seen, but he did tell of a revelation made to him, something not of this world and how he feared it. Some strange part of Alan felt the need to retain Edward's secret and the face that he hid. He only told of a devil who had revealed the face of a ghost long dead. Alan suspected Nicholas thought he was hallucinating, but the friar asked no questions and helped him through his roughest time: the day word reached him that Edward Cullen had arrived in camp.

He had broken down then, frightened that the ghost who—he hoped had forgotten him—was now back to haunt him. He figured that Nicholas quickly put the puzzle pieces together and realized it had been Edward he had spoken of all along. And when Nicholas had made Alan see that Edward was merely a man of flesh and blood, Alan Moore came only to one conclusion: the only reason Edward Cullen looked like a young Philip Fell must be for the fact that the blood of the late king ran through his veins. Maybe it was a distant cousin, maybe a nephew, maybe a spawn of an illicit encounter. Whatever it was, whoever Edward Cullen truly was, he was much more than he let on.

And it was, therefore, upon seeing the masked man for the first time in months, Alan Moore dropped to his knees in defeat. He stammered, trembled and looked at the ground. "My lord," he whispered as sweat started pearling on his temples. The look he then directed at Edward was enough to reveal what he had seen.

The hairs on Isabella's neck stood up as she watched the man stumble to the ground, his legs too weak to carry him. Her heart raced as she saw his eyes widen.

He _knew_. Alan _knew_.

She watched Edward, standing as frozen in place as she. The man before them still held her apron clutched in his hand, not able to stand. The women by the stream, thank God, had not seen the bizarre interaction.

"Stand up!" Isabella hissed nervously," Right now, stand up!" She went over to him and forced him to stand, her hands shaking in the process. Edward's mouth was set in a thin line. He had completely forgotten about Alan Moore—about the spy who had sold his country for a few coins. And although he seemed to regret his choice, Edward should never have committed such a foolish action. His hands turned into fists as he silently reprimanded himself—he should never have unmasked before the traitor. Alas, the damage was already done.

Alan stood up, his face turning a shade whiter for every ticking second. "Please, I will not breathe a word," he squealed.

"Silence!" Edward snapped. Alan cowered away from him. "We need to bring him to my tent, now," he turned and spoke with Isabella. Her lips were in a thin line as well, her face paler than before. They rushed through the camp, hoping they had not caught too much attention. Alan froze, practically being led by Isabella and pushed forward by Edward without too much resistance. They entered the tent and he was forced down in a chair.

"Who is this?" Isabella asked in confusion as her brows knitted together.

Edward leaned down to her, taking care that Alan would not hear what he whispered into her ear. "Remember the spy I spoke of? The one that was sent from Wessport to keep track of me the first time I journeyed down to Cadherra?" Her eyes widened as she turned to stare at Alan Moore. How could that funny little man have been the one to betray his country?

"Is he the same who reported to the English during the war?" she whispered back. He nodded, and her heart sank lower and lower in her chest. "And how come he _knows_? Don't tell me you showed him your face?" The tight-lipped sigh she received was answer enough. "Why on earth would you do such a thing, Edward?" she whispered in despair. What would this mean? Their situation had just turned. Edward's life was now on the line, his fate about to switch on the whim of a traitor. Fortunately, Alan Moore had not yet realized the power he could hold over Edward. That is: if the masked man let him leave.

"Carlisle and I needed questions—he wasn't talking. Unmasking was the final solution. I know the effect my face has on people."

"You tortured this man?" she asked. But then she caught herself, of course, he had, it was only wanting. They must have needed urgent information, information that only Alan Moore had. There were many things that surprised her about Edward, many things she did not know about him. The young woman looked away, such news bearing down on her. She knew Edward was as honest and true as they came. But the fact that he had tortured someone gave way to some slight disappointment within her.

"What do we do now?" The question was more directed to herself than to him. She glanced at Alan who had not dared open his mouth.

"A scout arrived about an hour ago reporting movement in the south, I have to leave with Carlisle and Jacob," Edward said as he snuck a glance at Alan. He knew what should be done. Alan Moore could not be left alive, no matter how much he repented for what he had done. But there was something that stopped Edward from killing him. Perhaps it was guilt—he had kept the man a prisoner for months. Just ending his life in such a manner was harsh.

Isabella read the expression in his eyes. They faced a dilemma, indeed. They could not kill the man, but they could never trust him. After the fiasco with Victoria, Edward found that his trust in many had run out. Alan Moore was definitely someone he did not wish to put the full weight of his future with.

"I have done nothing since coming here. I have only tried to help, I have given what little information I had. Please do not tell me now that—because I saw something I shouldn't have—I will pay with my life," Alan pleaded. It seemed he understood the dire situation he now found himself in.

The remorse in his voice rang true. But, still, neither Isabella or Edward could find it in themselves to trust him.

"I will speak with Fawkes," Edward whispered to Isabella. "I will have him locked away in isolation until my return. Make sure it is kept that way and that he speaks with no one," he continued.

"Perhaps we should speak with Sofia about this?" she asked.

"We do not need to drag her into this mess," Edward answered brusquely. He had no mind for Sofia to meddle even further in his life. And he knew exactly what the old woman would do to Alan. She would do what she had done to others who had seen his face. He caught a glance of the cowering man. He would not have him killed at the hands of the gypsy. "Promise me you will not involve her in this, Isabella," he said with forceful words.

"I promise," Isabella frowned. Apart from Carlisle, Jacob and Isabella, Sofia was the only one who knew his secret. For her, it was obvious to go to the gypsy. But if Edward had a reason not to, she would not go against him.

"I would not tell anyone, General Cullen," he pleaded. "Please, I have found solace here and asked forgiveness for my sins. Ask Friar Nicholas, he will tell you!"

Isabella did not know what to say to such words. She did not really know the man well enough to trust him. And if his record was true, then should he not be untrustworthy? They could not chance this situation. If Alan opened his mouth and revealed what Edward looked like, it might well make the domino blocks tumble—one larger than the previous one. It might end in a disaster for the masked man. He was not sure if his sister Rosalie might receive the word of his existence well in such an abrupt manner.

"It will only be temporarily, Mr. Moore. I will speak with Friar Nicholas myself," she offered, trying to calm him down. The mask of kindness now graced her features as a forced smile appeared.

Once Alan had calmed down, they took him to Fawkes. No explanation was offered other than that Edward played the offended part that a spy such as Alan should walk around with no one to guard him. He wanted the man in isolation until his return. Fawkes thought the whole situation stemmed out of the blue. But he did not argue, considering Alan had indeed been the cause for many lives lost during the war with England. Fawkes had no qualms about imprisoning the frightened man—in fact, he rather welcomed the opportunity. Isabella swore to Edward that she would make sure no one spoke with him. She wanted the secret kept just as badly as he did.

That Isabella should stay behind and care for his mess was madness. But if he left his duties, they might well stand unprepared if the patrol on the southern border of the forest proved to be scouts sent by Victoria.

He informed Fawkes of where he, Jacob and Carlisle were headed. And it was within barely an hour that he and his two friends had set out. The goodbyes between him and his fiancée were swifter than he would have liked.

 _June 22_ _nd_ _, 1520 – Southwestern border of Raven's Grove_

It was the three of them again—like old times. Edward, Carlisle, and Jacob had seen adventures to last them a lifetime. And now they would live one yet again. Had the scout who reported the news not followed them, Edward would have discarded the mask and enjoyed the dense forest air that filtrated through the rooftop crowns. Alas, he was as restrained as ever.

They rode as fast as they could, still not wanting to fully overexert their horses. The scout was in the front and they would only stop for quick naps or for a quick visit to the bushes. They ate on horseback. A ride that would normally take three days took them no more than two. They arrived at the post fatigued and exhausted. The other scouts met them as soon as they reached their post—a wooden structure hidden within the crowns of the trees. The thick foliage made it nearly impossible to spot.

"They've been camped by the edge for a full day now, sir," one of the scouts said—a lean man in his late forties. He pushed the deep green hood back and brushed away some small twigs from his beard. His gaze lowered slightly when meeting Edward's. The man cowered at the presence of the general.

"Have they gone into the forest?" he asked in a strong voice, the way it broke through the peace of the woods made some among the scouts jump startled in place.

"No, sir. But it is strange, it is as if they are waiting for something. I think they are aware of being watched," he said in staccato notes—the very thought unnerving him.

Edward turned to meet Carlisle and Jacob's faces. It could well be a trap to lure them out of the protective forest. "We should speak with them," he said after a while.

"What if it is a trap?" one of the scouts asked. It was a young man, not yet past his teen years. His face had been kissed by the rays of the sun and dark circles under his eyes told of little sleep for the past days.

Edward nodded to himself. "That is why only a few of us shall go. If we get captured, one of you must ride back to camp and alert them. Do not try to come to our rescue, do not try to distract them or interfere in any other way. Our main priority is that they do not get all of us."

"Jacob and I shall go with you, Edward," Carlisle said, not allowing the masked man to protest. "We stand the best chance of fighting back in case they prove to be loyal to Victoria." Edward knew he spoke the truth, for the scouts before them did not have any extensive knowledge of fighting.

And, so, they agreed. Jacob, Edward, and Carlisle readied themselves to meet the group. It would be the three of them against at least fifteen men—the odds were not in their favor. The scouts watched as the trio walked out of the forest. "They're walking toward massacre," one of them whispered as his shoulders slumped.

"Cullen should have stayed back," another one muttered. "Always doing heroics."

"He's just provin' himself, Rob," another one answered gravely in a Cadherran accent. They all remained silent after that remark, watching from the trees, thinking their hearts would break through their chests.

The small group of soldiers had been waiting some days by the edge of the forest. It had been a pleasant wait, they always enjoyed being on the road. Their lord had provided them with enough supplies for weeks and they hoped the rebels of the forest would take long in coming.

They did not have their guard up, instead, they lounged in a circle on the soft emerald grass. Some of them were laying on their backs, watching the clouds high up above them sail through the blue sky. Suddenly, one of them exclaimed—the one sentinel they had placed as watch. All of them sprung to their feet, alert and ready for whatever might emerge from the woods.

Out of the eerie and dark woods that was Raven's Grove walked three men in a nonchalant manner. They bore dark clothing and moved toward them with ease, not dragged down by unnecessary armor. The one in the middle claimed all their attention—they knew who he was from a distance. The black mask gave him away.

Edward Cullen.

The named General of Rosalie Fell's armies did not seem nervous the closer he got. There was an air of arrogant nonchalance, he was not bothered by the fact that they were outnumbered five to one. The masked man and his friends stopped a few paces from them.

"What brings you here?" he asked. There was no time for pleasantries. He jumped right to the point. His dark and low voice cut through the pleasant summer midday, mirroring the dark tendrils stretching out from the forest. Edward seemed to have brought its unnerving aura with him. Some soldiers stepped back. They knew the stories of Cullen and few were willing to engage in battle with him.

But one of them, the man whose very purpose was to be there, stepped forth. "General Cullen, I am sent by your princess, Her Royal Highness. These fourteen soldiers have come with me for my own protection," he assured. But the words did not seem to lower Edward's guard.

"And why did she not send her own confidant? Lord Athar or Lord Glovendale?" he asked.

"Because she did not wish to be parted from them," the man answered.

"And where is the princess now?" Carlisle Chaeld demanded, just as brusquely as his friend.

"Heading south yet again with her advisors."

"What news were you told to bring us?" Edward asked the messenger.

"News of success, my friends. She has managed to recruit several noblemen to her cause. My own master, Lord Wilson, promised Her Royal Highness he would send me and some soldiers to reassure you. Her Royal Highness and her advisors felt it unwise to break off their journey only to alert you to the news."

But the messenger's words did not seem to take effect. "How do I know you speak the truth?" the man in the black mask demanded.

"I have a letter, written in her own hand," he stated. "The seal unbroken." He whisked out a white slip of paper from the folds of his coat and started walking toward them. Edward and he met up in the middle. Now that he stood face to face with the famous general, the messenger, Frederic, gulped at the sight of the man. A gloved hand stretched out and grabbed the slip of paper.

 _Generals Fawkes and Cullen,_

 _The Lords of the lands are restless. I now understand their reluctance to join Lord Athar in the past. My sister, Victoria, has been pressuring them for months on end to stay true to her cause. She seemingly has spies everywhere. I myself was approached by one of her men but a day ago, urging me to come to my senses and leave this campaign._

 _When I write to tell that it has been difficult to make more lords join our cause, I mean it. Lords Athar and Glovendale have reasoned that we should continue south for the coming weeks and see who else would join us. We already have some houses at our disposal. Lords Wilson, Murrn and Tyris of Thenn have agreed to join us. They may have smaller armies, but they are loyal. There have also been some lords north of Raven's Grove, from New London, eager to contribute to our cause in secret. I shall not write their names here, in case the letter is intercepted._

 _We hope these new additions will have doubled our army. Before the end of the month, new recruits should be lining up at the edge of Raven's Grove. If God willing, we shall be prepared for when my sister comes._

 _And, for Edward Cullen to understand that this letter is written by my own hand and not a forgery, I write him these words:_

 _A king is not born_

 _He is made_

 _Rosalie Fell_

Edward's mouth settled in a grim line at the last words. He knew then that the letter was real. He recognized her handwriting. Sure, Rosalie could have written it under duress or have been forced to do so. However, the words she had offered him—the last words of Jasper Fell—held such a big impact on both of them that he instantly knew it was her and that she spoke the truth.

Frederic watched nervously as the masked man folded the letter meticulously. He waited for him to speak, looking nervously at the sword and dagger that hung on his hip. "I take it these men are to come with us then," she stated after some time had passed. The growling voice boomed across the field and Frederic jumped, his hat falling off his slicked-back hair. A dark lock fell into his eyes as he pulled at the high collar. For the first time, the summer heat got to him. The masked man before him, standing dressed in black pants, a dark-green jerkin, and a dark shirt, did not seem bothered by the pressing heat.

"Indeed, my lord." The wrong title bestowed on Edward made him sigh. It seemed he would forever be branded as a lord, despite having had the title taken from him. He did not bother with correcting the messenger this time.

"And you?"

"I am to return back to my lord Wilson, if you do not object, of course."

"And what of Lord Wilson? I see he has given us fourteen men. But I suspect he has more," Edward answered brusquely.

"I do not understand," the messenger gulped.

"It is I who does not understand. The princess has written to me that between the lords she has met, an army of five hundred soldiers was promised us. All I see are fourteen men here. And no lords, for that matter. Have they chosen to stay back in their comfortable castles?"

"It is a complicated situati—"

"I am sure it is," Edward growled. He rose his head, looking down on the man in a proud gesture. "I will take those soldiers your master has so kindly bestowed upon us. But you shall go back to him with my message. He has chosen a side now and no castle in the world can protect him from Victoria when she comes. There is only the one or the other, nothing in between. Tell him that and have him tell his fellow lords as well," Edward said. Frederic glanced up, swiftly looking away from the fiery green eyes.

"I shall, my lord."

"Sir, I am not a lord," Edward finally corrected. He looked past Frederic. "Well, will you be standing there all day or are you coming?" he asked the soldiers.

They looked amongst themselves. The soldiers did not have great expectations when their lord had ordered them to escort Frederic north to Raven's Grove. But that they were sent to join forces with Edward Cullen was a completely different thing. Many were eager to go and swiftly gathered their things. They walked past Frederic who was left alone with his horse.

He watched as those who had escorted him up disappeared with the three men into the dark woods, as if swallowed by night itself. Frederic did not entirely comprehend what had transpired, but he sure did remember the message he was to deliver back to Lord Wilson.

 _June 23_ _rd_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

"We have wanted this for a longer time than you might imagine, my lady," Fawkes said. He sat opposite Isabella, undressed from his fine armor, the dark-blue gambeson hanging haplessly from a nearby stool, a cup of mead in his hand.

"Wait until Edward returns, at least," she begged.

Fawkes frowned. "Then why bring him into isolation now? Why not before?"

She did not know what to answer. In fact, she could not answer the question. Alan Moore's lockup was due to their fear of Edward being discovered. "I took offense at the man when I discovered who he was," she lied through her teeth.

Fawkes nodded. "We all did, but you acted. Friar Nicholas has been too mild with him. What Alan Moore has done cannot be ignored. Yet he has walked around camp a free man."

"But is it not too harsh executing him, my lord?" she asked.

Fawkes fixed his eyes on her as a smirk creased their edges. "Don't tell me you have not been thinking the same. I can well see it in your countenance. We all have. It would be a good riddance."

Yes. Isabella had thought of that possibility—of having Alan executed. It would be easy, swiftly done and one less worry for Edward when he returned. She wanted to protect him, but she could not bring herself to say the words.

"I understand," Fawkes nodded after a while. "The reality of this is setting in and you hesitate. But, my lady, let me worry about this."

She remained silent, watching her folded hands. Isabella did not speak up against what Fawkes had said, she let it slide. The young woman suspected many of the other lords and officers would be of the same mind. Few would take Alan Moore's side. She feared at her ease of letting the man's life simply be determined like that.

* * *

Indeed, it was a great thing, to be part of the forces fighting evil. At least, that was how she saw it. Alice dumped the dirty rags into the bucket of water, rinsing them once more. She stared over the camp, at the laughter of the women, their braids shining in the rays of the sun, the children running fervently—playing. Her frown deepening. They all thought as she did, they all had hopes and expectations for the future: a better future.

And Victoria Fell was not part of that future.

But was a war justifiable? Was it right to sacrifice the lives of their men for someone else to inherit the crown? She could not say. It appeared many could not say. She drifted back, lying to herself, thinking that such questions were not for her to answer. She was but a servant and always would be—how could she ever presume to involve herself in such insightful discussions?

And, yet, the conversation grew. Isabella involved her more and more in it until Alice formed her own opinion. And it was an opinion she had the strength to express. And Isabella welcomed it.

She did not wish for a conflict.

She did not want war.

But she understood why it was imminent. Yes, she understood well. Alice had heard of the horrors Victoria had done in Wessport. The city whose walls would forever bear the stench of death and decay. Wessport would forever bear the mark of tyranny and sorrow now. Her heart went out to the families of those who had been executed. People who had been killed in the name of the very same crown those around her fought for. The matter was a complicated one. But one thing Alice knew, the world was not as black and white as she had supposed. She understood as much when a man of the very church she so respected had broken the holiest sanctity—that of confession. It did not matter to her what reasons Cardinal Thorpe had had for bringing her word out to light, she understood he did it more for his own benefit than for the good of others.

A corrupt and disgraceful man he was, that Cardinal Thorpe. Her nose wrinkled as she thought back to him. There were many in Wessport like him, she started realizing. Perhaps, she thought, without being too naïve, this might be the time for a true change—for men like Thorpe to be permanently removed from power. Alice preferred men like Cullen. And it was not only because of his many feats and achievements. There was something imminently more important to it.

Cullen was one of them.

He was not a nobleman's son, he had no outstanding line to back him up. He came from nothing and built himself up. And, it was indeed strange that such an imposing man would come to be so respected amongst them. It was almost as if they looked past the mere man. Alice was sure that those who had not met him must have pictured someone very different than the Edward she knew. Indeed, they would think him frightening, capable of incurring respect in all who met him. She supposed he had turned into an individual now idealized. But he did not seem phased by it—the humility in his person was the reason she still respected him. And the fact that he had gone to such lengths to save Isabella. She was not alone in this. The relationship between Isabella and Edward was well known in Angloa. It was a relationship that symbolized their own dream for the country: strong, loving and everlasting.

Alice went back to her duties as her mind kept wandering.

The day continued, and Isabella Swan shifted as she turned from watching Alice work, not letting the young woman see the frown gracing her features.

Isabella walked back into the emptied corner of the hospital. She had had the urge to speak with Alice but had refrained from doing so. It was best not to drag her friend into more intrigue.

Her feet took her to the solace of the forest, away from camp. Alan was still locked up in isolation. A full day had gone by before the cook and holy man—Friar Nicholas—had come to his aid. Isabella had not been there for that confrontation.

She had sat down with Fawkes a few times more after their initial discussion. Isabella was faced with a difficult decision. She would not reveal the extent of the threat Alan posed, only that he posed a great threat to them. The alarm in her eyes unnerved Fawkes and he pushed for Alan to be taken care of at their earliest convenience—as he should have been after the war. And indeed, the general pushed for the extremes. He took this chance to rid the camp of the traitor once and for all.

The young woman could still not form the words. Fawkes had offered her an easy way out. He would take care of it all.

But it felt wrong.

Was she so cold and broken down by the death of Braun that she would readily consent to have a man killed? Isabella shivered despite the summer warmth. If they waited for Edward's return Alan might talk. She would make Edward's life easier if she let Alan's death happen. Or perhaps he would despise her for it?

It was there that Friar Nicholas found her, in complete misery at the decision now facing her. He walked in between the trees as faint beams of light illuminated the stuffy forest. She basked in one of them, her skin growing almost translucent. The young woman looked like an apparition.

"Raven's Grove reflects your sorrows, my child," Nicholas said.

Isabella looked away. She had not yet actually spoken directly with the old friar. He seemed a decent enough fellow. She knew why he was there. He would plead for Alan's life. He had tried to do so with Fawkes. The stern and proud old general must have sent him away.

"I am not sad, friar," she answered.

"No, but your conscience weighs you down."

Nicholas sat down on a trunk not too far away from her. He let her wallow in silence for a while. She was still too ashamed to look at him.

"Every man needs a second chance," Nicholas said distantly. "I believe Mr. Moore is no different in that aspect.

She wished intensely she could explain it all to him. Perhaps Nicholas would understand then. The young woman was torn. He would think her a heartless monster, unable to give him a reason as to why she planned on letting Fawkes have Alan executed. Isabella knew it was wrong. But what other option was there?

"He is a traitor."

"Indeed, he _was_ , and it is my vocation to forgive him, just as our Lord forgave us," Nicholas started.

Isabella continued looking at the ground.

"I spoke with General Fawkes, but he is a military man. I came to you, the last hope Mr. Moore has of living," Nicholas pleaded. But he never did so without losing dignity nor face.

"I have little power here. And matters like these are complicated."

"When a man's life is on the line, nothing is too complicated," he stated. His tone was never that of condescension, only of patience and compassion.

She turned to face him. By doing so her mouth dropped a little in sudden recognition.

She had met this man before.

"You?" Isabella asked in disbelief as she rose from whence she sat. Her face dropped further, her brow furrowed in confusion. How was it that people from her past so readily returned to her life? Nicholas did not answer her sudden outburst but let her process his presence.

Isabella did not think to ask why he was there, or how he had come to be there. She recalled her days in Wessport with Edward. They had returned by request of King Jasper. She had escaped one day with Alice to a small church in the middle circle to confess. Because confession seemed like a good idea back then.

"Last time I saw you, you were quite burdened as well," he whispered. Nicholas had recognized her the moment she'd walked into camp. He could never forget the sorrowful and burdened young woman who had wandered into his church. And yet, he had kept his distance. She seemed distressed enough without having another surprise thrown her way.

Isabella thought back to their confession. Her time in Wessport had not weighed as heavily as the decisions she was now faced with.

"I have not gone to confession since I last saw you," she admitted with a sad smile.

Nicholas sighed as he got up and sat by her side. He took her hands in his, they enclosed hers and a warmth spread from the tips of her fingers. A scent of honey broke through the forest canopy. "Well, I seem to have caught you at a good time, then," he answered.

Isabella looked at the ground. "I cannot." She pushed away from him, her mind even more in disorder than before.

"You are not the same young woman that walked into my church that day," he said sadly. "Because I believe that woman would never once hesitate in a similar situation. She would know what was wrong and right," he continued.

"You paint the world as black and white when it is all a disastrous and disgusting gray mess. I would love to go back to naively believing it was so. But I cannot. Alan Moore poses a threat in more ways than you can possibly believe."

Nicholas pressed his lips together. "You might well hold the life of a man in your hands. I want to help you push aside your doubts—make you see that you will commit an act that will haunt you for the rest of your life." He never once lost the friendly tone, nor the patience. He reasoned with her casually, never raising his voice.

Isabella looked away in shame. She thought it was better if it was done before Edward returned so that he might not be faced with the same decision. "The mere fact that you cower before such a statement shows me that you know it is wrong."

"It is Fawkes who is set on this outcome," she whispered. "He ordered this, not I."

"But you are going along with it," Nicholas replied. She hesitated, sitting silently for a while.

"It is wrong, father, I admit," she fought hard not to break down before him.

"It is in the face of decisions like these that determine the type of people we are," Nicholas reasoned.

Isabella remained silent for a long time. She let Raven's Grove calm her with the soft summer winds gently blowing her loose hair. Her shoulders had dropped to the ground, as if gravity was stronger than usual. But it was never the gravity, only the severity that weighed her own soul down.

"I wish to confess," she said after a long while. Maybe revealing her sins to him might clear her jumbled mind and make her see another way out. Nicholas nodded calmly, his presence as reassuring as the sun on an early spring morning.

"I have tried to come to terms with my actions for the last few months," she whispered. Catharsis settled in as the friar listened, unbiased. Her eyes met his, afraid he would judge her after her next words. "I have killed a man."

She expected him to turn away in disgust, to frown and look down on her. But there was only sadness in Nicholas' eyes.

"I have tried to brush off the occurrence. But I do not regret my decision, which is what most frightens me. I fear what it might be doing to me," she confessed. For the first time, he heard the note of fear in her voice.

"Who was this man?"

"Lord Oscar Braun," Isabella whispered. "And I killed him because I learned he had been involved in the death of my father. I killed him out of pure hatred and revenge."

She found it strange to be revealing such intimate secrets to a man she did not know. Isabella had not even voiced her fears to Edward, her mother or Alice. But here she sat, by a strange twist of fate, confessing to a priest she had known for a total of half an hour.

"Revenge clouds our judgment, it stems from pain afflicted on us. Many have gone down your path and come out without a drop of remorse. But I believe you feel it, even if you will not admit it. And now that you are faced with a similar situation, it emerges, and you find a battle within yourself."

She found it bizarre to hear his words, like he held some personal experience in the matter. Isabella rose her eyes to meet his gentle ones. She looked into them, wondering what she might find. An echo of pain resided within his brown depths. "There is a reason I became a man of the cloth," Nicholas admitted after a while. "We all have to atone for our sins in the end."

"You have known this pain too?"

He nodded. "And it has taught me that the quickest way out is never the easiest. Executing Alan Moore now might seem like a quick and obvious decision. But you will regret it in the long run."

"But it is Fawkes who is set on having him executed," she started. "There are many factors in this that I cannot tell you. If Mr. Moore is not taken care of he might destroy the life of someone I care for."

"Alan has seen or heard something he shouldn't have, if I am not mistaken," Nicholas guessed.

"How would you know?"

"Because whatever he saw has plagued him ever since. His sleep is forever invaded by nightmares, he cannot find peace in his rest. And he cannot find peace awake either. He is judged by everyone here just as he is tormented in his sleep. Alan is facing the consequences of his sins."

"I would wish to believe that Mr. Moore would not run around revealing what he has seen. But if this world has shown me anything, it is that there is more anger and hatred than I could ever imagine. There are few in whom I can trust, even less in a known traitor to keep such a heavy secret."

"What is done cannot be undone," Nicholas repeated. "Perhaps you should speak with the man who is to be executed before making your final decision. Avoiding him will not give you the answers you seek. We all think to judge those who have committed mistakes. Men like Alan are usually the ones who end up surprising us," Nicholas offered, the final piece of advice before leaving her alone yet again with her thoughts.

* * *

 **A/N: As you might have noticed, I did not post a chapter last week. As I mentioned in the disclaimer of the first chapter; I will not always have time to post weekly. Remember that I work a job full-time, study and try to have a social life on the side hehe. So the passive-aggressive PM's are not that necessary. I understand if you are looking forward to new chapters, but there is no need to be rude (you know who you are).**

 **As for the rest who have patiently waited, thank you! I hope you liked this chapter! I will try to post the next chapter as soon as possible, I'd like for the fic to be over before the summer is gone!**

 **Cheers!**

 **Isabelle**


	5. Chapter 5

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 5_

 _June 24_ _th_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

The trial was mostly for show. A ceremonious process as many knew what was to come after. They were few who had been permitted access to it. Isabella stood next to a long table, for she was to witness the proceedings. It was what Fawkes had promised her—she now held more power as Countess of Cadherra and confidant to Princess Rosalie. But she was not permitted to judge or have any other say.

Emmett Saxton, Anthony Fawkes, and a few officers were present sitting by the long table, overlooking the rest.

Isabella instantly recognized Lord Rajac, looking the worse for wear. The left side of his face had been hurt, the wounds healing into silver scars. He would forever be marked. Two long and thick scars ran around his eyes, through his eyebrow, slightly deforming it. Whenever she laid eyes on him, she was reminded of Linahan. An involuntary shiver coursed through her veins. Lord Durun was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared after the take-over of Wessport. Amalia Rajac had been held back in the capital, Victoria keeping her locked away as long as Rajac continued to defy his sovereign.

Some foot soldiers were present at the trial of Alan Moore as well. Alice and Sofia were there too, the only other civilians except for Isabella and Friar Nicholas.

They had stepped away from prying eyes—a part of the clearing enclosed so that the other soldiers would not intrude during the formal proceedings.

They all saw the trial of Alan as some sort of catharsis, the only payback they could momentarily get for the horrible war that had stemmed with England. Alan, it seemed, was to be the scapegoat.

Alan was brought, afraid and shivering, to stand before them. He had been in isolation for half a week and his eyes darted around the open area to find some sympathizer. The only one was Nicholas. However, he thought he glimpsed a flicker of remorse in Lady Isabella. She stood tall and proud by the long table, her hands clasped in front of her, her dark burgundy gown floating slowly in the breeze.

"Mr. Alan Moore, we have brought you here to stand trial," Fawkes began. "No doubt you should be executed directly for the crimes of extreme treason against your country." He looked over at the others present. "But others insisted on the trial," he said, eyes resting momentarily on the friar. Isabella had hoped a trial would not be held so openly, that the decision would be done within the intimacy of a small tent, away from so many spectators. For, she realized, a trial meant Alan Moore would have to argue for his innocence. The frown present on her features was due to the worry she now held at what the traitor might reveal.

"Please, I have repented for my sins!" Alan tried to look around, tried to find some compassion among the onlookers. Only Alice and Nicholas' hearts cried out for him. Isabella looked down at her clasped hands. Shivers coursed through her as the wind grew, dragging the chestnuts locks out from the braided bun, encased in its netting.

"Your list of crimes is severe, not to mention long. You sold crucial information to the English ranks during the battle of Castell, do you deny it?" Saxton started.

"No, I do not deny it," Alan whimpered. A collective murmur sounded.

"You killed one of your fellow soldiers when he discovered you committing the previous act, do you deny it?" Saxton asked, more forcefully.

Alan's shoulders sank to the ground. "No," he cried. Nicholas' heart sank to the bottom of his chest as well.

"You were ordered by a Captain John Fletcher, apparently now deceased, to further spy on Edward Cullen, do you deny it?"

Tears started welling up in Alan's eyes. "No," he whispered.

But now it was Nicholas that stepped forth. "I was allowed to act as this man's defense!" he exclaimed. Both Fawkes and Saxton were about to protest, but Isabella stopped them.

"Go ahead, father," she offered, forcing herself to let him speak. Before the trial, she had promised Nicholas to at least be able to defend Alan.

Nicholas gave her a grateful nod. The pudgy friar walked over to where Alan stood, his presence calming the man somewhat. Alan brushed away the tears and pushed his graying black hair away from his face. "Mr. Moore, please tell us in detail what happened after you were discovered by Edward Cullen."

Isabella's eyes widened. Would Alan reveal what he had seen? If he did, it would be an apt time to do so. The revelation would be so astounding that he might well escape his current predicament. Alan saw the duress in Isabella's countenance, he saw her shift worriedly before her mask came on. Melike's presence in her mind screamed at her to recompose herself. Isabella could do nothing. Fawkes, while still despising a man like Alan, had finally decided on a just trial. If they were to build a new Angloa they had to start somewhere, and blatantly executing a man was nowhere to start. At least, that was how the others had reasoned—especially Lord Saxton and Rajac. There had been no other choice. But now she was trapped in a corner.

"Lor—I mean Sir Cullen tried to extract information from me," he answered.

"And in what way did Edward Cullen extract information from you?"

"By way of torture, father."

However, most there present did not seem disturbed by the fact, except for Isabella. They probably thought Alan deserving of such treatment.

"And how did he torture you?" Nicholas asked.

"Carlisle Chaeld did most of the physical torturing, father. Sir Cullen used other methods."

"Such as?"

Isabella's hands turned into fists. Her mouth went dry as her face turned ashen. She parted her lips in excruciating anticipation.

"H-he showed me his face," Alan admitted.

"No!" Isabella exclaimed as she stepped forth. She would not have Alan reveal what he had seen. Others were intrigued by what Alan was saying. Sofia had straightened in her chair now as well, her eyes meeting with Isabella's for a brief moment. They could not let this happen.

Isabella's mind was spinning. She had sought to stop this from happening, and now they would be left with a complete mess. When Edward returned he might return to a changed reality.

But Nicholas caught her gaze as if assuring her that all would be well. "My lady, please," Fawkes begged. "I understand you do not wish for us to hear this, to hear how they speak of Sir Cullen. But we agreed to grant him a trial." Her heart raced. What was there to do? Her hand automatically went for the folds of her gown, to her upper right thigh where she had secured a familiar knife. The thought of killing Alan then and there crossed her mind. Would she make it before he uttered another word? What would be the consequence of such an action? Would it ignite further curiosity to Edward's appearance beneath the mask? Saxton, sitting by her right side, caught her hand as if he knew what she was up to.

"You will not help him by committing such a rash action. It will only make matters worse," he leaned over to say in a whisper.

"And, tell us, why did he show you his face?" Fawkes asked, rather reluctantly. "Did he think that would be a way of torture?"

"He did, my lord," Alan answered.

There was a moment of hesitation. Many in the crowd wanted either General Fawkes or Saxton to ask Alan what he had seen. The curiosity for Edward's unmasked face had never been so strong.

But neither of them found it in them to ask. It was, instead, Nicholas who did so.

Alan shivered as the memory crossed his mind. "It was an awful sight," he started as his breath quickened. "A sight no man should see." He looked to the ground. "That was no face of a man, my lords, but the face of someone dead. Never have I seen such a ravaged and twisted visage," he answered with a shiver. Alan spoke his words in such conviction that many among the crowd shivered with him. Both Fawkes and Saxton snuck a glance of Isabella.

She was beyond words. She could not believe what she was hearing.

"And Sir Cullen thought showing his bare face to you would constitute as torture?" Fawkes asked, rather unnerved.

"Of the worst sort." Alan looked over at her, a sad smile forming on his mouth. "I can understand young Lady Swan's inclination to protect her future husband-to-be from these tasteless inquiries. But since my life is on the line, I felt it necessary to add. I know I have committed a grave sin. But I have been plagued with the image of Edward Cullen's face in my mind for months. He had me locked away to rot in a dungeon when we arrived at Adelton Hall. I suppose it was more than deserving. I only stand here now, humbled before you all, pleading to keep my life."

"It was by request of the men sitting here that we issued this trial. And all present, we decided on this trial to show that rule under Rosalie is just and fair. All are entitled to a chance. But how can we ever trust the likes of you, Mr. Moore?" Fawkes lamented. The usual cheerfulness that had been so present in Wessport had died away the day he left the capital.

"I did not ask you to trust me, only to let me live," Alan argued back. "For I very much want to live. And is my life considered any less than yours just because I committed a mistake?" he asked them. His eyes rested on Isabella's. "Am I not in the right to live as well? I watch, every day, in awe as this camp grows, as we progress and better ourselves. I am thrilled to have been witness to such bravery here. Please, do not take my life when I have so much of it left," he pleaded.

The words touched the strings of her heart. Isabella had felt trapped in a similar situation. She understood what Alan meant. He would never again be trusted, and he would never presume to be so. All he asked was for a chance to continue living.

"Your words are moving, Mr. Moore, but how many have not had their backs stabbed because of pretty words? I am afraid both Saxton and I cannot, in our right state of mind, and in the presence of the law of the land, allow you to live," Fawkes said. "It is with a heavy burden that—"

Isabella walked forward without thinking, interrupting General Fawkes. She walked right up to Moore. Perhaps Alan realized there was a lot weighing on him. "I have known too much ugliness for my own good, Mr. Moore. It is the reason I allowed this trial, despite being against it."

Alan did not answer her. Her words were muted, only for his ears. Nicholas, however, managed to listen in.

"If I grant you a second chance, I hope you will understand what it would mean to break that chance? Prove me wrong, Mr. Moore, make me see that you are a decent person and that you did indeed make a mistake," she continued.

"You are interfering?" he asked. He was stunned that someone like Isabella Swan could hold so much influence.

The young woman before him kept her mouth shut. The words sank in as the surrounding spectators watched in increasing intensity. "I am." She turned to face Fawkes and Saxton. "My lords, I know some of you have been waiting for this trial for a while," she said, looking at Fawkes. "When Edward and I had Mr. Moore brought to isolation, I fear it was the final step taking us to this point. I never imagined a trial, and I never welcomed it either," she confessed. She turned to the sulking man—the one who was being convicted as a traitor. "To think that this man has been the source of so much heartache—that because of him we might have lost against the English," she paused as she shook her head. "I understand the sentiment some might hold of wanting to see him gone. I myself thought not to have any qualms about Mr. Moore meeting his end at the executioner's block." The young woman had them in the palm of her hand—all present clung to her speech, mouths shut as they kept listening to every word. "And I realized I had no moral right to think that way. As General Fawkes said, Her Royal Highness' rule should stand for justice and follow the set rules of our lands. Thus, I accepted the trial. And I also did it to prove a point to myself—that _I_ , after everything that has happened, still hold some decency, some morals. The reasons were wholly selfish." She turned to look around at the onlookers, watching her in disappointed disbelief. "You all might be craving his blood, you might want to see his head roll on this meadow. But how could we fight a war against Victoria Fell when we take the same actions as she?" she asked them.

"We have given this man a just trial, which is far less what Victoria has given her victims," Fawkes argued.

"We have put him on a podium and counted his many crimes. But we have not given him a trial, my lord," she argued back. The young woman started growing feisty as she realized, in her heart, that she was doing the right thing. Defending Alan felt right, especially after the fact that he had lied about Edward to protect him. She felt alive at committing such an ultraistic act—mayhap she did it out of selfish reasons as well.

Fawkes' brows furrowed.

"Forgive my rudeness, my lady, but was it not both you and your fiancé who came with this man, set on having him put in isolation—"

"My fiancé is not to be dragged into this," she answered blatantly. "I was the one who asked Alan Moore be brought and isolated from the rest of camp. I did so when Edward revealed to me who he was—he happened to stumble upon him when searching for me at the stream. When I found out Alan was the traitor that my fiancé had been speaking of, _I_ asked him to take Alan in. Edward never once mentioned such a thing," she lied. The act was so convincing that Alan Moore almost believed it—and he had been there. "I judged him when it was not my place to do so. And you are now all judging him as I had," she stated with strong voice. The wind carried it over the enclosing and Fawkes' lips settled into a thin line. He despised the fact that he agreed with her. The friar never thought he would see such an action from the confused woman he had sought out in the enclosed forest. She did not look lost and frightened now.

"If we have him executed—killed—his blood will be on all our hands," she turned around, bringing them all in with her speech. "And then we will start questioning ourselves. We will stoop low and Victoria will have won—be it battles or in principle, but she will have proved that we are no better than her. And is that not our main cause against her—that we are people of morals and principles? I ask you, would you be so eager to judge the same acts and person if it was committed by someone you knew and cared for?"

"And if we do nothing against a man who might well have been the cause for hundreds of deaths on the battlefield, then what are we?" Saxton demanded.

"Alan Moore will pay the consequences for his crimes, but his life is not the price," she argued.

"I doubt very much that General Cullen would agree with this sentiment. He was the one being spied on, he was the one who saw countless soldiers die on the battlefield because of Mr. Moore's information to the enemy," General Fawkes argued with just cause.

"Actually, I believe Miss Swan has a point," came a dark voice from the far-off corner of the enclosed trial. They had been so occupied by Isabella's speech that none had noticed Edward himself arriving with Carlisle, Jacob and some more soldiers in tow.

They all got over the shock of the masked man's sudden reappearance. "Really now, Edward, you would pardon Alan Moore after everything?" Rajac asked. "After the fact that, if you had never discovered him, he might have delivered you to the lion's mouth for a mere bag of _silver_ coins?"

Edward caught a glimpse of Alan who cowered away from him. "Admittedly, there is a reason as to why we are all standing here."

"Indeed?" Fawkes asked.

"Alan Moore has seen my face, as you might all now be aware of." His statement was the only real response they all needed. Edward brought up something he _never_ spoke of in public. "I wear this mask for a reason—and it is not for my own, I assure you." He sent a fleeting glance at Alan.

"This man was sent to be isolated from the rest of the camp because I found out about his presence here at the same time that I had to leave camp. I did not want to have a former traitor and spy in our camp, delivering information to Wessport nor have him blabbing of what he has seen. But, that events would unfold so quickly, I never knew. I suppose I would not have seen the same reason that Isabella Swan did. I am glad she has. She is right. We all entered into this conflict because Victoria Fell needs to be stopped because we believe we have stronger convictions and morals than her. But how could I ask people to follow me into battle when I so mercilessly ended the life of a man due to my own vanity?" Edward asked.

Fawkes grew flustered while a smile spread on Saxton's features. The soldiers who had previously lifted their nose at Alan in indifference put themselves in his position for the first time.

"By the laws of this land, any traitorous act is punishable by death," Fawkes reminded.

"However, if that traitor repents, as Mr. Moore has, he is entitled to another form of punishment. Or, perhaps it isn't a punishment as much as it is a way to make up for his sins," Edward continued, walking toward Isabella and Alan.

"What do you suggest?" Fawkes asked.

"If Friar Nicholas is willing, I suggest he take Alan Moore under his protection. Let him work for him by serving him, by serving a good cause."

Isabella held Edward with her gaze, growing warm at the sight of him. He commanded with his presence, just appearing yet managing to silence all. Her heart swelled with pride at the sight of him. It did not go by unnoticed by those who watched the loving gaze she held for him. "I suppose true love is blind," Saxton whispered under his breath. Indeed, they were all thinking it—about the horror hiding under the mask. But when Isabella Swan held such affection and esteem for Edward in her gaze, they let it slide.

"I am willing," Nicholas smiled from ear to ear, turning to Alan.

"I am willing to oblige," Alan answered. It was a much better outcome than what he had expected. His heartbeat slowed down. It was over, it was finally over. And he seemed to have gained the approval of both Cullen and Lady Swan. Alan did not have to fear for his life, at the moment. And he would do well to keep his mouth firmly shut from now on.

He would agree to have a soldier following him at each moment of the day and to be guarded at night. Alan was now entirely at Nicholas' disposal—like before. But now he could rest easy. It was over, he had nothing to fear anymore.

They dispersed. General Fawkes, Lord Rajac, and Saxton walked up to Edward and his group. Isabella stood close to him, as close as was socially acceptable for a couple not yet married.

"It is good to have you back, my friend," Fawkes smiled. "And I see you bring company with you," he gestured to the tense soldiers behind. Their eyes bulged as they were in the presence of the famed Anthony Fawkes, the dashing old war hero.

"More will come, I assure you," Edward answered in a rumbling voice. He stood relaxed, with the weight on one leg and his right hand resting on his sword.

"We need to speak about Her Royal Highness' campaign in the south and we need to go over reports from the north," Saxton interrupted.

"Have your scouts seen something?" Edward asked, growing slightly alarmed.

"Movement, my good general. We should look into having Her Royal Highness brought back soon," Saxton looked around. "Perhaps we might go somewhere more private, the three of us? Not now, in a few hours, I suspect you must be tired from your journey," he joked.

"Come come, lad, I am certain Sir Cullen would not mind sitting down for some mead and tell us of his journey," Fawkes added in a jovial tone. But before he could continue, Isabella interrupted.

"Although I am certain Sir Cullen would find such a compromise agreeable, I must, once more, be seen as rude. I would like to speak with my _fiancé_ , my lords," Isabella dared with a slight blush touching her cheeks.

Edward rose an eyebrow behind the mask. A chuckle escaped him, despite himself. "It seems my lady is set on having me to herself," he said as Fawkes and Saxton grinned from ear to ear. Jacob and Carlisle looked after them as they walked away from camp, to the tree-line.

"Those two," Fawkes sighed.

"Who would ever have thought they would end up so close?" Rajac added. "I remember when they were pushed together."

"Was it really forced, I wonder?" Saxton answered enigmatically.

"You think there was something there from the start?" Jacob asked curiously, also joining the conversation.

"There had to be something at first glance, why else would Edward, despite his better judgment, have decided to stay behind at Wessport?" Fawkes agreed.

The young couple neared the tree-line, taking care in putting some distance between themselves. Isabella knew her sudden claim of Edward was most unbecoming of her. But who was there to chastise her? The men did not seem to mind and there were no court ladies to gossip. Besides, Edward was her intended, she was allowed to be near him.

They were enveloped by the dark green canopy and she shivered when she discovered his forest green eyes on her, burning as they could not let go.

"I know what you will say, that it was foolish of me to allow a trial for Alan. I should have waited for you. But I thought I could handle matters on my own," she whispered, her rosy cheeks turning a hue darker.

Edward neared her with silent steps, her heart racing as he did so. "I think you handled it perfectly, Isabella. That was quite a speech," he murmured in low words. He stopped in front of her, their bodies a sliver from touching. "But is that really why you brought me here?" he asked with a slight smirk touching his features.

Isabella stared up at the mask and blushed. "No," she answered. "I just wanted some time with you for myself before you were off again."

A laugh escaped him. He let down his guard even more with her, became at ease in her presence. "You don't have to steal me away, Bella, you know that," he mumbled in her ear. The hot air tickled her and caused a deep shiver through her body.

"Bella?" she teased as she leaned into him.

"It suits you." A hand found its way to the small of her back as they leaned further into each other. Once again, Raven's Grove wrapped around them, shielded them from the ever-invasive eyes of the outer world. She had longed to be in his arms like this. It was perfect. Isabella did not need much more than that.

"Kiss me," she whispered huskily, not able to go one more second without his lips on hers.

All she saw before the kiss was the smile and those penetrating green eyes descending on her. She felt the intensity and longing behind the kiss. And she delighted in how it grew more and more passionate. Edward appreciated her response to him, how she grabbed onto him, how her hands explored his body, how she sighed into him.

They never wanted to break apart. But, as the kiss grew to become more, both realized that they were heading into territory that might be dangerous for now. There was a point where Edward's iron resolve would falter.

"You kiss me like that again and I will not be able to restrain myself," he murmured against her lips, breathing heavily in rhythm with her. He did not wish to scare her. He thought back to their reunion, the moment on the boat, on that bed, how Isabella had reacted when they had been so close to making love. He did not wish for her to force herself. He wanted her to give herself fully and freely.

Isabella knew why Edward stopped himself. She did not yet know if she was past what had happened on Braun's ship. They had not tried to be so intimate since they were reunited on the ship going back from Constantinople. Isabella ignored his words and kissed him again. It was her Edward, she knew he would not hurt her, she knew he would care for her, as she would for him.

They heard the chatter from the camp break through their perfect solace. The forest did still find it worthy to protect them for just a moment more. And it was at that moment that Isabella felt Edward respond strongly to her sighs and kisses. She had never known what it was for a man to be aroused. But his countenance changed and there was a different tone to his kisses—almost primal. Edward _wanted_ her. It was a lust that had been suppressed in his eyes, never fully displayed as it was now. It was new to her and she did not know how to respond. But there was also a want growing within her. A hunger that could only be quenched by human contact.

Edward lowered them to the moss-covered ground. She let him dictate her, let him rule over all her senses. Her hand went past his shoulders until they met his mask and froze.

She broke the kiss.

For the first time, she caught sight of his eyes and the deep hunger residing within them. It scared her. His breath was labored, and his body temperature seemed to have risen because he emitted such warmth that she thought herself to be next to a furnace.

And it was at that moment that Edward regained some composure over himself. They realized the position they were in, him atop of her, her gown sliding up, exposing bare legs. Her hand trailed to explore his mask and a sad smile appeared on her features.

It was not time, not yet, they realized. Otherwise, they would not have stopped themselves so abruptly.

Edward sat down next to her, the heat getting to him. She watched in awe as he wafted his gloves and mask before her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He showed her how comfortable he was exposing himself in her presence. His uncovered face was flustered and red. The pronounced jaw dusted with a dark beard that was in dire need of a trim.

There was a fleeting moment of peace, where they sat in silence in the other's company. Edward looked at the mask in his hands and glanced at Isabella.

It was at that moment that he realized his true feelings for her, feelings he had brushed off as mere and basic affection.

But what he felt was stronger than he could have ever imagined.

It was love.

Edward loved her.

* * *

 **A/N: Yet another chapter! Excited for this one. I hope you liked it :)**

 **I'll see you next week with chapter six. Once again, thank you so much for the reviews, words of encouragement and so forth. I am thrilled to have you reading this little story of mine.**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	6. Chapter 6

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 6_

 _June 27_ _th_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

The day Rosalie Fell returned with her advisors and a small army of three hundred men, the camp rejoiced. Their leader had brought trained troops and morale rose. A few southern lords had even decided to follow her. Most were from small, insignificant houses, but they pleaded their loyalty only to her.

Alas, the princess did not seem at ease. The day she returned, she had a meeting called. All the prominent lords at camp and her two esteemed generals joined her in the main tent, by the same table where she had been proclaimed their true sovereign.

Generals Cullen and Fawkes sat close to the queen on her left. Lord Athar and Glovendale, her two royal advisors, were by her right side. Saxton and Rajac stood in one corner, and some new lords stood in the tent. Chairs were scarce and only the highest-ranking officers and lords were allowed to sit.

The aura was gloomy and suppressed. Little light filtered through that day. And the day itself held a grayish tint as clouds blocked out the otherwise stark sunbeams.

"My lords, generals, and officers," Rosalie started ceremoniously. "I return from my journey with my royal advisors Athar and Glovendale. And we bring new friends." She gestured to the new arrivals. "Lords Wilson, Murrn and Tyris," she announced. Lord Wilson bowed swiftly, his golden locks tumbling into his eyes. He was much bejeweled and looked out of place among the dressed-down lords. Wilson dressed for court rather than for a war council. Lords Murrn and Tyris sent the peacock some glares, clearly not too keen on him being there.

General Fawkes stood up. "I bid you all welcome and speak for us all when I say that your presence is a most appreciated one," he said in grave tones. The lords answered with small bows.

"I must admit, that is not why I summoned you all here," Rosalie continued with dire resolution. She had a slip of paper in her hands, a slip of paper that had plagued her ever since she found it in the bedchamber where she resided on her journey. "My sister has contacted me."

"What?" some exclaimed. Others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Edward leaned forward and clasped his hands under his chin.

Rosalie unfolded the slip of paper and looked at her sister's handwriting before she started reading the lines. The essence of Victoria Fell echoed within the tent as if the cruel queen was there herself.

" _Dear sister, for I still consider you to be so. I write you with a heavy heart. The day you were taken from Wessport was the day my world stopped. To think that Edward Cullen and Theodor Glovendale talked you into leaving my side, Rosalie, hurts my heart in more ways than you can begin to comprehend."_ Rosalie's voice wavered, but she pushed through.

" _I hold no animosity toward you, no hate, no condescension. I only love you, Rosalie, as a sister can love a sister. I despise that we have had to be separated by men that have sought to use you against me, that have sought to brainwash your mind into thinking that I would ever do you harm. I do not want a war with you as I do not want to hurt those who support you and reside within Raven's Grove. I know you are campaigning with Lord Athar and Lord Glovendale. I would like to believe that there is still some decent part of you that would see reason. Can we not meet in person? I miss you, dearest Rosalie. I miss having you by my side, your council and your strength. I wish to come to terms and make amends. I will have already started moving by the time you deliver this message to your lords and should be closing in on Raven's Grove by the end of the month. I will speak with you on your own terms, of course, for I trust blindly in you. Please, do not let these men destroy what is left of our family._

 _Yours, Victoria."_

"What reason does she have for sudden diplomacy?" Fawkes asked. The others mumbled amongst themselves as Rosalie crumpled the letter.

"These words might sound true now, but I know Victoria. I know what she has done. She makes it seem as if I was brought here against my will when, in fact, I came of my own accord."

Edward's lips remained set in a firm line as he leaned back in the chair. "You should meet with her, regardless," he suggested.

"Are you a fool, sir?" Lord Wilson uttered in a nasal sort of way. "It is obviously a trap!"

"Victoria would meet with Her Royal Highness on our terms. I suspect we could learn a great deal from having this conversation with her. There must be a reason she is pushing for diplomacy."

"You would trust in Victoria?" Saxton asked in disbelief.

"Never, but I know she truly loves Her Royal Highness," Edward continued. "Despite what many of us might think, it is not all black and white."

"I believe Cullen speaks with reason. Have there been any reports of an army present?" Athar asked.

"There was movement in Sorossa a week ago, but it has calmed down. However, we have not heard from our scouts for a few days. Someone is expected to come today with news," Saxton answered.

"Then we wait for him. Once we are certain that Victoria is on the border of the forest, we decide how to best go about this from there," Edward said. "With the princess' permission, of course," he added, bowing to Rosalie. She stared at the crumpled letter in her hands.

"My lords, generals," she said, not answering them. "I need a moment for myself. Have Lady Swan fetched. I need her to help me settle down after this tedious journey," the princess murmured.

"Of course, Your Royal Highness," they all answered in unison.

"However, there is another matter we should settle," Athar continued.

"Which is?" Rosalie wondered.

"We proclaimed you our queen, yet you have not taken any steps to have yourself crowned," he said carefully.

Rosalie got out of her chair in slow and tedious movements. "And in what cathedral would I be crowned? By what bishop and with what crown, my lord?" she asked.

They all remained silent as they processed her words. "It is still a formality which needs to be done," Edward said after a while.

Rosalie directed her full attention on him. "There would be no legitimacy if I was crowned here in Raven's Grove. The royals of this land have always been crowned in a cathedral or a chapel, whether it has been the chapel in Adelton Hall, now surely under the rule of my sister or Wessport, wherefrom she rules the land," she murmured. "I would not be a true queen by the laws of our kingdom."

It was Saxton's turn to speak. A smirk spread across his lips as if he knew something they did not, a knowledge that had his eyes filled with hopeful luster. "Your Royal Highness," he began with a muted voice as the dull tones in the room pressed. "You do not _need_ to be crowned in Wessport or Adelton Hall, for that matter."

"And where else would she be crowned?" Lord Tyris asked, stroking his shaven cheek, rather befuddled.

"New London," Saxton answered rather prominently.

Stifled gasps sounded in the tent. "New London?" they asked in disbelief. "The old capital of the English?"

"New London was the name set by the English when they ruled here. But _Safeira_ used to be the ancient capital of Angloa, the capital where kings were crowned, long before the Fell line. It stood mighty and inspired awe in all those who visited it, standing strong even since before the times of the _Romans_ ," Saxton continued with passion in his eyes. "If we can take it back, we will have taken a great big step in defeating Victoria and setting our position."

"But it is _New London_ ," Edward answered in confusion. "It represents everything King Philip and his forefathers tried to get away from—the English domination over these lands. Why would we crown Her Royal Highness there?"

Rosalie looked at Saxton as well, an air of fatigue washing over her. "I understand what it is you are trying to do, Lord Saxton, but I will not be crowned in New London. It would be a grave insult to my sister and would no doubt cause her to put her full might into her army."

Saxton frowned, not understanding that the others could be so blind. "We have a chance to send a message to your sister and you are afraid of insulting her?" he asked.

"Emmett," Athar began, cutting the other off. "Your heart is in the right place, but Her Royal Highness is right. We here are old men," he said, pointing to himself and to the older generation present in the tent. "You represent the ideals of a younger generation—ideals that have no time and place right now, I am sorry to say," he lamented.

Saxton got up, rather flustered. "You are right Lord Athar," he sneered. "All of you are so set in your old ways, in the ways of a _recent_ tradition that you cannot even break away from them at a time like this." Edward's lips pressed together under the mask as Saxton's eyes caught his. "Even you, Cullen? Will you not say anything?"

"I have no opinion. From a military standpoint, it would make sense to claim the city. But from a political standpoint, I have no say here. I am a general, not an advisor nor a lord," Edward added in muted tones.

"From a military standpoint we would indeed gain much by taking New London, it is Lord Graham who is steward there. The city's guard is stretched thin and if a siege occurred, it would not last. I am certain many more would flock to our sides if we took it," Lord Tyris added. The middle-aged lord with a cleanshaven face and trimmed tufts of curly auburn hair flared his nostrils as he delivered his speech.

"Let us first focus on my sister, then we can speak of claiming cities," Rosalie said, feeling lost in all the chatter between the men.

She walked out of the vast tent, going into the smaller one connected to it.

Isabella was fetched and helped the princess settle down. She removed the heavy brocade gown and Rosalie lay down on her bed, the headache preventing her from thinking straight. "Does Her Royal Highness want me to stay?" Isabella asked timidly.

"Please," Rosalie begged. She did not wish to be left alone with her swiveling thoughts.

Isabella settled near the bed and started working on an embroidery. The heavy draping blue fabric of the tent loomed over them, blocking out the sunlight that would otherwise filter through the fabric. Isabella had never quite mastered the art of needlework, but she found that there was more time left over now, and she needed to kill that time with whatever she could.

"I heard you have had quite the adventure these past few months," Rosalie whispered as she started plucking out the sharp pins from her golden hair.

The young woman's lips settled into a firm line as she continued with the needlework. "I think we all have, Your Royal Highness," he answered.

A sigh broke through the solemn canopy. "Will you tell me about Constantinople?" Rosalie asked, hoping Isabella's tales might divert her from her own worries.

Isabella put down her embroidery. "What would Her Royal Highness like to hear?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable telling, Lady Swan."

"I am not a poet, I could never begin to describe that city to you, begin to capture the essence it invoked in me the first time I got a good view of it."

"By the light in your eyes, it must have been an impressive sight," Rosalie smiled as she undid a thick braid, her locks cascading past the small of her back.

"It was another world, something I had never seen before. Something I shall probably never see again. It held this aura of mystery as if it housed secrets I might never begin to comprehend," she whispered, and a shiver coursed through her. "And the nights were alive, almost pulsating, vibrating. Only a few hours before dawn did it die down to such an uncanny stillness that it felt out of place. And there were great big domes of which I have never seen the like, inner courtyards with exquisite carvings and mosaics, with reflecting pools and flowers in all colors. There were towers reaching for the sky and faint wafts of exotic spices and fruits I could never name."

Isabella caught herself wandering off and blushed. "Very different from here," Rosalie finally added.

"Yes, Your Royal Highness. But I hold great love for Angloa as well."

"We all do," Rosalie murmured distantly. Her fingers went for one of her small books, one which Nicholas had lent her. She put it aside, not finding the concentration to read.

Isabella knew what had been spoken about in the tent. Edward had mentioned some of it for her as she was taken to the princess' tent. The young woman knew it was out of place to give her own opinion on the matter, but seeing the princess so entangled in her own thoughts made her want to reach out. "I am only a young woman who got wrapped up in a chaotic mess, but someone shared wise words with me in Constantinople," she said- Her eyes did not leave the embroidery for fear of the expression that might emerge on the princess' face. "The reason I endured my captivity, that I was never persuaded by anyone, never broke down, was because of one woman who—" she paused, thinking of Melike. Isabella would never come to know what had happened to that enigmatic woman who might well have saved her life. She had never gotten to know her full story, had never gotten to know what Braun might have done with her. All she could hope for was that Melike had gotten away unscathed.

"What did she tell you?"

"There was a choice to be made, and only I knew the answer," Isabella started, remembering that fateful evening Melike had given her back Zoráida's dagger.

"My choice may put the lives of many at this camp in danger," Rosalie said, the grayish tint never quite leaving her face.

"I do not know what choices you must make, Your Royal Highness," Isabella lied, not wanting to reveal how much Edward had shared with her. "But I kneeled together with the other lords who proclaimed you our true queen. And now a choice must be made, and it is hard and difficult, but only you can make that decision," the young woman said with a fierce decisiveness.

Rosalie could not help a faint chuckle escape her. "Do you know I saw you several times in Wessport before you were promised to General Cullen?" she asked her.

"No, I did not," Isabella answered in confusion.

"You quite reminded me of myself at first, you know. You are aware of what my sister has done, and if you knew what choices I am faced with, you would most assuredly push me to the one that would defy Victoria. But Victoria shielded me for the better part of my life. She was the one who had me taken to a cloister, she was the one who protected me at court. It was thanks to her that I could have a somewhat normal life, despite the disagreeable things I managed to reveal about her in the end. She wanted to keep me blissfully unaware, much like Cullen tried to do with you in the beginning, if I am not mistaken."

Isabella did not want to protest, but let Rosalie continue to speak.

"I know what she is, but it is hard to accept, hard to understand all that she has done. And this decision: if I should meet up with her outside of Raven's Grove on diplomatic terms, will be a test for me." For the first time, Rosalie let her brittle interior show. Perhaps it was because she was in the presence of a woman who had gone through similar ordeals as her. There was an unspoken bond of solidarity that made Rosalie feel closer to Isabella, despite not knowing her all that well. "And I suspect that, if I am faced with her standing before me, I will fail in my resolution and give it all up," she confessed.

Rosalie revealed her fear of having taken too much water over her head. "But there is no going back, both of us know that," Isabella said in muted tones.

"I know. A part of me desperately clings to the nostalgia of the past, to the person she was before."

"Your Highness," Isabella added. " _If_ you agree to this meeting, regardless of what your generals and council feel, _if_ you can face your sister and still be firm in your resolution, you will forever be at peace with yourself. Because you will have surpassed that object blocking your path to greatness."

"My path to greatness," Rosalie chuckled.

"We are not by your side because you are the only option except for your sister. We are by your side because you are the opposite of her, good and kind."

"I am not a ruler, Lady Swan," Rosalie said.

"Did you hear your cousin's last words before being executed?" the young woman asked in solemn tones. Rosalie nodded, not wanting to recall that horrible day. " _A king is not born, he is made._ " They both let the words sink in briefly. "Does that not apply to queens as well?" Isabella added.

Rosalie looked at her hand as if the answer lay embedded within the lines of her palms. "I need a moment for myself," she said, never looking up. Isabella got up and bowed, but before she left the tent, a voice called out for her. "Thank you, Lady Swan," the princess said.

Isabella turned around, curtsied as she smiled. She never knew when she had turned into _Lady Swan_. That title had always been reserved for her mother. However, Isabella accepted it.

She would never reveal the conversation that had just taken place, and Rosalie knew that. Whatever weakness the queen had displayed, Isabella would take that to her grave.

* * *

Nicholas set aside the wooden spoon after having stirred the stew. The smoke rose through the hole of the tent and a pleasant waft spread through the glade.

Alan Moore continued to peel the carrots in silence. He had not spoken much since his trial, only obeyed the friar, afraid that speaking or saying anything might undo the sentence put on him. Few people would venture into the tent when Alan was there. Instead, they would wait until he left if they wanted to speak with the friar. Nicholas was loved by all, and many sought his guidance—for he held a strange wisdom they could not place. Whenever he spoke, he made those around him feel better, their hearts lightened. The kitchen tent had become some sort of chapel, now both working to feed and alleviate their souls. Every Sunday he would hold mass outside of it. They had no wine and, so, he would make do with mead.

"Her Royal Highness has returned," the friar said to the younger man with a hearty smile.

Alan murmured a muted yes in response. But he did not say much else.

Nicholas went to sit next to Alan on the long bench. "You have been saved from execution, yet your demeanor is more downtrodden than before."

"Maybe I should have been executed," Alan whispered. "I am a pathetic traitor," he whispered. "Edward Cullen should have ended my life and spared me this agony long ago.

"Yet he didn't," Nicholas said, frowning as doubts emerged within the other man. "He spared you, despite what you saw, he decided to give you another chance and you should be grateful for that."

Alan cut himself on the sharpened knife and hissed. "He should never have shown me his fac—"

"Do not speak of it, Alan," Nicholas warned. Unbeknownst to them, another figure had entered the tent, still making its presence unknown. "I do not wish to hear it and you should not let your tongue slip. The reason they did not have you executed was because you promised to remain silent."

"Of course, I would never reveal what hides beneath that mask."

"And I would never wish to hear it," Nicholas said. "The man wears it for a reason, and whatever is beneath it, it is not for you and me to speculate about."

For the first time, Nicholas sounded quite severe.

"It is comforting to know you are still true to your word, Alan," a dark voice broke through, startling them both. Alan jumped up from the bench as the masked man himself neared them.

"General," he murmured, looking down at the uncovered ground, clutching his wounded finger.

"Alan, will you leave us for a moment?" Nicholas asked, sensing Edward was there for him, not for the other. Alan took the chance and got out of that tent as swiftly as he could. "Why have you come?" Nicholas asked after a long pause.

Edward stood immobile, dressed in dark clothing, the top of his shirt untied, his gloved hand resting on his sword. His weight was distributed equally on both legs, telling that he was ready for whatever might emerge. Nicholas knew well how to read people and Edward Cullen, despite knowing it himself, had taken a defensive battle stance.

"To see if I can trust you," he answered bluntly. Nicholas rose an eyebrow as his brown eyes widened.

"And what did you find?" the shorter man asked.

"That we might be off to a good start."

A chuckle escaped the pudgy man, despite the tense air surrounding them. Edward Cullen might have come to him for another reason, but in the blink of an eye, he had decided to change his reason for being there.

"You meant to eavesdrop on us?"

"That was never my intention, but I am glad that I heard what I heard."

"Why did you really come, General Cullen?" Nicholas asked once more, his voice never straying from kind and calming.

Edward's hand tightened around the pommel of the fencing sword, despite himself.

"You are the only priest here—"

"Technically a friar, but a priest might well be my title too," Nicholas answered with a smile.

"Still, a man of the cloth, nonetheless," Edward continued. But then he stopped, hesitated.

"And why should you need a man of the church?" Nicholas knew he was not there to confess, nor was he there to donate any money. The only other reasons he would be needed was if someone needed a christening, or a funeral service or…

"I… might be going away soon," he said, thinking of the letter Victoria had sent Rosalie. Their first battle might be nearing.

"And you wish that your fiancée might become something more," Nicholas filled in.

"We were supposed to be married months ago," Edward nodded. The word _marry_ was so unfamiliar, so foreign to him that merely forming it with his lips was strange.

"Your betrothal was declared in Wessport," Nicholas said.

"By King Jasper. We have waited longer than the 40 days proclaimed by the church."

"Indeed, you have," Nicholas chuckled. "And you have come to me, asking me to perform the ceremony," the friar stated.

"We have waited long enough."

"But do you do this merely because you think you might die soon? Would you leave her a widow then?"

"I want her to bear my name, friar, if I happen to be struck down in the near future," he stated. Edward stood tense, speaking of a matter he was not comfortable with, with a man he barely knew.

"I have not heard you declare the wedding here at camp."

"That is why I come alone. I want the ceremony to be done with as few people as possible."

"An elopement?" Nicholas asked, raising an eyebrow. "With no witnesses?"

"Maybe some…but there are many people outside of this forest who want my head. If they found out Isabella Swan had become my wife, she would be placed in even more peril. Until this conflict is over, I want her to become my wife without too many knowing of it."

Nicholas nodded, completely understanding the precautions Edward was taking. The friar dared to look into the deep green eyes of the masked man. "I will marry you both, but it will be an honest ceremony. You must procure some witnesses, at least two," he began.

"Very well," Edward said.

"And there is something else I would have you do—something you might not agree on at all." Nicholas' lips settled into a thin line. He knew that what he was about to ask Edward would not settle well with the masked man.

"Angloa has its own traditions and customs that we have followed for centuries. For me to be able to bless your marriage, it has to be done in a true manner. You are baring yourself before the Lord, showing your true self before each other," Nicholas began, hesitantly.

Edward's mouth settled in a thin line as the color drained from his lips.

"Any other monk, priest of friar will say the same. If you wish to marry, you must do so without the mask, you cannot marry her while having your face covered—not in following the rules of our land. It would be constituted as deceitful and not a true bond would be established."

"Unmask myself," Edward stated.

"When you take her as your wife, yes."

"In your presence."

"Those are the terms of the church. Whatever is beneath that leather will forever be guarded by me. I will be yet another keeper of your secret, Cullen."

Edward did not let the despair show in his eyes. But Nicholas could sense it. He knew what he was asking, he only wondered if the man's love for his woman was strong enough for him to reveal himself in such a manner.

* * *

Afternoon progressed and a scout from the northern border of the forest arrived with dire news. A camp had been set up on the great plains of southern Sorossa, a few miles from the tree line. The royal coat of arms flew high as Victoria had announced her presence. And, as expected, a white flag of truce was holstered. But the pace and nervous look on the scout's face spoke of more.

"At least three thousand men stand at the ready," he had jumbled out in a great big mess.

Edward and Saxton had shared a glance at that. Jacob had bitten his teeth together while Carlisle' nostrils flared. "They outnumber us more than three to one," one of them had muttered under his breath. Despite the newly arrived forces of the southern lords, they were still short of soldiers. And those who followed Victoria were well versed in battle.

"What should I do?" the scout asked, his whole persona jittery as if he wanted nothing more than to run away.

"Stand-by for now," Fawkes ordered. He placed a comforting hand on the man's shoulder and smiled. "And good work, soldier." The words might not have felt like much, but it was enough to bring up the spirits of the frightened man.

"Has she decided yet?" he asked, turning to Edward and Saxton, mumbling in hushed tones so that the other men might not hear.

"No word from the princess yet. I think one of us might have to speak with her," Edward suggested, looking from Fawkes to Saxton.

"Lord Athar is away speaking with Lord Glovendale and I suspect she does not want to hear from me as I suggested we not speak with her sister," Fawkes said.

They turned their attention to Saxton, but he put up his hands in defense as well. "Her Royal Highness barely knows me," he said, almost flustered. "Besides," he added with a charming grin. "Would it not be fitting for the man who helped her out of Wessport to speak with her?" he said, looking at Edward.

* * *

Edward soon found himself following the young princess as she made her way to the tent. She had not said a word to him as he had come to get her, not willing to inform him of her plans. They were soon joined by the other prominent lords once more and the princess stared at them solemnly. She had made her decision, it seemed.

"My lords and generals," she began with a somber air. There was only one choice for the princess, one way that would not only show her as a wise and just ruler to be but also show that she was willing to listen. "I have thought about our discussion. News of my sister's arrival is somber for us all and I can sense the tension within the frail walls of this tent. But I have made my choice. I will speak with her and hear what she has to say," Rosalie said. There were some who were close to protesting, but all she had to do was put up a hand to silence them again. "There is a reason for her coming here when she could very well have crushed our forces in one swoop. I want to know what that reason is."

"Then we send an envoy to her," Lord Athar said with heavy shoulders. He would not go against Rosalie's words, but the very thought of engaging in a diplomatic talk with Victoria seemed foolish to him. And he did not seem to be the only one to think it was all a trap.

"Tell her that we will meet by the tree line north of here, but not within the forest. In six days, at dawn."

"She could have her army attack us if we stepped out of Raven's Grove," Fawkes protested.

"Which is why we meet by the _tree line_ ," Rosalie insisted. "She will not want to meet within the forest more than we want to meet on an open field."

"In six days, at dawn," they all murmured in subdued voices. It would be enough time to send a messenger, have him come back with an answer and set out themselves for the edge of the forest.

"And tell her," Rosalie said after a moment's thought. "That she may bring three of her trusty advisors, and that I will do the same." This was a good moment to find out just who the queen confided in.

"And who will you bring?" asked Lord Tyris.

The princess already knew her answer. She would bring the men who had looked after her the most. "Lord Athar, I believe you should join me as my main advisor, you are the one who stood up against my sister after all. You should be there." Her eyes continued to scan the room. "General Fawkes," she said. "I need you there as a senior presence as well, as someone with a history and background in matters such as these. You escaped with Lord Athar and kept up resistance here."

Fawkes bowed. "It will be a great honor, Your Royal Highness," he said.

"And, finally, General Cullen," the princess added. "I want you to join me there as well."

"Would it not be wiser to take Lord Glovendale with you, as your second advisor?" Edward asked.

"Perhaps, but we are meeting my sister and all three of you know her better than most in here. You know how cunning she can be, how manipulative she can come off as. You will be the greatest support when I face her."

"No doubt it will serve to send her a message as well, that you trust most in the three men that defied her the strongest," Saxton chuckled. He, like many others there present, would have wanted to see the look on the queen's face as she was faced with the proud lord Athar, the two astute generals, and her sister.

"Send the messenger and wait for word," the princess commanded.

 _July 3_ _rd_ _, 1520 – Northen border of Raven's Grove_

Mist stretched over dew-covered grass as an owl hooted out into a frisky morning. Sound of boots trickled over the meadow, clothes and clattering armor brushed and clashed against each other as people huddled close together in formation. In the distance, through the haze of mist, vibrant colors of banners and flags desperately tried to break through the canopy.

Victoria patted her mare's neck as she nervously chewed her metal bit. The horse was as restless as her mistress.

"They said dawn," Savoie remarked, a steely and rough voice clawing through the stillness. Their eyes would not turn away from the edge of Raven's Grove and the grotesque darkness that seemed to ooze out of it. Her skin turned to gooseflesh at the mere sight of the shadowed interior. Victoria did not want to think that her sister was living in such a dastardly and awful place. She brushed the silk of her vibrant and lively red gown. It was trimmed in a silver-metal thread with a short bodice with further lavish trimmings in silver thread and patterns that symmetrically slithered over her upper torso. A lace pear cap covered the crown of her head and confined her dark-red tresses. The rest was pulled around the cap in intricate braids, away from her face, allowing a clear view of her delicate features. A silver and ruby necklace adorned her square neckline. The queen had come dressed for a banquet, not for a diplomatic peace talk. She did not answer Savoie's remark, she did not feel inclined to.

The queen tapped her fingers on the front of her saddle. The horses of the others waited with growing anxiety as their riders grew all the more nervous. Another ten minutes passed before Alistair spoke. "Where _are_ they?" he growled under his breath. Launël gave a sideways glance to the younger man and snickered.

"She will come," Victoria snickered back, shutting the proud and foolish lord up. The sound of a tree branch breaking sent the ears of their horses on full alert as shadows started to contrast against the blackness of the forest. A smirk cut through her face. She knew Rosalie would come, she could not deny a heartfelt plead from her sister.

Four riders emerged like ghosts through the mist. Their approach was muted, they moved slowly as if the pressing fog and mist intercepted them and slowed them down. Her teeth gritted together as she caught view of a shadow never quite catching the faint, muted light of morning. He remained as dark as before.

"Cullen," she growled to herself. Did not Rosalie know she would have taken the masked man's presence as a deep insult?

Rosalie Fell rode calmly up to her sister, the very picture of composure. While she did not dress as elegantly or exquisitely, there was no sign of discomfort present in her. Her clothes were well-kempt and clean. The muted and cool blue tones of her gown were all that cut through the mist as she reached her sister. The broken rosary hung around her neck, in place of exquisite gold and jewels. Her hair was pulled back in simple braids. The blonde tresses were confined like a small halo around her head.

Victoria paid no heed to the others who followed her as Rosalie stopped her horse a few meters from her own. The flow of blood in her veins increased as her heart sped up. Both sisters stared each other down in a silent battle. Much was left unspoken but hung in the air, words that wanted to come into the light, but that remained left behind. Rosalie took in the sight of her sister—of the queen of Angloa. Aye, she looked regal indeed.

"Rosalie," Victoria began with her well-rehearsed smile. "Thank you for coming."

Rosalie did not answer her, she did not have the same mind for theatrics as her sister did. The princess dismounted her horse first, promptly followed by Edward, General Fawkes, and Lord Athar. Victoria and her lords did the same and the eight of them reverted back to the silent tension as all exchanged looks of anger and malice.

Alistair glared at Edward with all his might, wanting one reason to reach for his sword and cut the masked man down right then and there. Lord Savoie and Launël stared at General Fawkes and Lord Athar in silent contemplation. Nothing on their faces revealed what they were really thinking. But Victoria was not as coy with her feeling toward the men. When her eyes crossed with Lord Athar's a look of ice momentarily made its way into her eyes that provoked an alarming chill in the very soul of the old man. He swore to himself that he had just witnessed the very eyes of a coldblooded murderer, a daemon of flesh and blood. Victoria did not, however, send Edward the same look. She ignored him completely, not meeting his shadowed eyes once.

"Lord Savoie, if you please," she said, motioning for the lord. He went to the side of his horse and, together with Lord Launël, they untied two small stools for both women to sit on. "I fear we might be here for a while and comfort might be something you lack right now," Victoria offered with a hesitant smile to her sister.

"You think of everything," Rosalie answered in a flat tone.

The low stools were placed down, and it was then that both Rosalie and Victoria asked that their lords step back.

"But, Your Majesty, were we not to follow you as counsel? Are we not to take part in the conversation?" Lord Alistair asked befuddled.

"I have come to talk with my sister Rosalie first and foremost. The talk between queen and princess can wait," she ordered with a sharp tongue.

At the same time, Rosalie only sent a nod to her group of counsel. Six men stepped back enough so that they might not be within hearing distance. Edward spotted the flags of the tents in the distance. Victoria's army was too close for comfort. But there was no way they could back down now without forcing her hand. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and gripped it hard.

"Let us hope you do not have to use that," Athar whispered to him under his breath. Edward nodded tensely as he watched both women start talking. He did not really know which outcome he had hoped for at present.

Rosalie's hand went to her rosary, to the muted wooden beads that she had carried with her ever since her sister had sent her to the monastery. Victoria's dark eyes drifted to her sister's hand. Her face was a mask of stillness as she gave Rosalie room to speak first. Their reunion was an awkward one, filled with uncertainty on both parts. Victoria did not know what to expect—it would have been easier if her sister displayed anger. But the silent condescension and disappointment threatening to break through her own mask bore down harder on her.

"Is Raven's Grove all that you hoped for?" Victoria asked after the hand left the comfort of the wooden beads.

"Is Wessport?" Rosalie answered in muted tones.

Victoria bit back a counterremark. "Your presence there would make it even better," she tried, smiling. But Rosalie offered no smile in return—only the same look of disappointment, of hidden agony.

"I suppose you do not wish to speak to your sister, only to the queen," she answered. Rosalie stifled a shiver. Her sister was not there to speak to anymore. "Very well," Victoria continued as she received no answer. "I have come here to speak to your senses and ask you to cease this now. You have some wit, Rosalie, you of all people should see the folly in this. I am certain Lord Athar and Fawkes will listen to you. Speak with them, have them disband their troops and I will forgive and forget that this ever happened."

"Then I have no wit."

"You are sounding like a sour child, Rosalie—"

"I made a decision the day I fled Wessport, Victoria. I will not go back on it now, no matter what you offer me."

"Are you so bloodthirsty that you would start a war?" The mist kept pressing, kept suffocating, kept blinding them. "Or is it power that you crave?"

"Never power, for the malice that it brings, for the people it corrupts. It has divided our family through generations. It has erased your former self and given way to something I can no longer understand." For the first time, some emotion cracked through Rosalie's tough exterior.

"I told you, I did it for the good of Angloa, Rosalie. I acted and bloodied my hands for the benefit of others, not for myself."

Rosalie shook her head as her brow furrowed at the tragedy that was her sister. "If I could hold a mirror that would cure you from your own blindness," she lamented.

"You are pressing for a conflict if we do not reach an agreement here today. I will do all in my power so that my soldiers and warlords do not harm you—but the same cannot be said for those who follow you—"

"Why now? Why this urge for peace? You could easily have delved into Raven's Grove, battled my forces and forced me back to Wessport by your own accord," Rosalie interrupted. "There is a reason you are not resorting to force, Victoria, and while a part of me wants to believe that it is due to your sisterly love for me, I fear another stronger reason is the driving force.

"How could you ever suspect that I would try to drag you to Wessport by force? If you do not wish to remain there, you do not have to. But this little rebellion is childish and will lead you nowhere."

Rosalie and Victoria refrained from speaking for a while longer. Their advisors watched in growing tension as there seemed to be no progression in the talks. Morning rolled on and the mist started lifting, but the warm light of day would not break through the cover of clouds that had descended upon them. It boded ill, an omen of what was to come.

"Is it the English?" Rosalie finally asked. She was in a position where she did not have to fear the reprimand of her sister. She let the horror of her knowledge ooze through the cracks of her mask, let her sister see the true disappointment she held for her. It was then that Victoria started realizing just how much Rosalie knew. The queen was caught off guard, her pale hand grabbing at the stool as, suddenly, her silk red gown felt constricting. The layers pressed too much on her frame as the lavish jewels and silver chains choked her. "Have they come to claim their end of the bargain too soon?"

"No—" Victoria began, cut off yet again by her sister. Rosalie had regained her composure as a coolness settled within her at the sight of the woman before her.

"Did you really think they would allow you the throne without ever interfering? Do you want to evade this war because they will see it as a time to threaten our shores?"

"How do you know this?" Victoria asked, still so surprised that she did not even have the mind to try to hide it.

"Lord Athar showed loyalty to the kings he pledged fealty to. He served Philip Fell, our father. Athar tried to protect us when father died but failed. He tried to protect many things but failed. He went on to serve Jasper Fell and managed to protect him for many years. I know how our cousin could be," Rosalie kept spilling, her voice growing in intensity and force. She started letting out her hidden anger for her sister—things she had kept hidden for too long, things she had wanted to say to her face for an eternity.

"He kept showing loyalty to Jasper, unlike so many others. _He_ and Anthony Fawkes showed to me that they could always be trustworthy, that they would never fail. _I_ sent Lord Athar information about you and about the court for weeks and months on end, because in my heart I knew what I did was right. And I am telling you because you deserve the truth—something you never bothered giving me even once. When Edward Cullen returned from the east, I had to watch how you forcefully dragged a poor widowed woman from her home, how you slowly poisoned her to lure her daughter and her fiancé here. For you knew indeed that they would come to Lady Renée's rescue," Rosalie continued. The ire turned into disgust. Victoria had no time nor strength to interrupt her sister as she kept throwing confession after confession to her.

"When you caught whiff of a spy in Wessport you sent Edward after _me_ and he discovered who I was. And he never revealed me to you, because he, like the others, is true and loyal. I sent him to speak with our cousin, to try to resolve everything quietly, because the path you were going down scared me, yet I was blind to see that I could never have stopped you."

"Is this what has kept you going in that horrible forest? The thought of telling me off? The thought that we would sit here, and you would tell me what a bad person I have been?" Victoria growled.

"Maybe I was fueled by the thought at some point. I will repent for that sin later. But how could I not be affected when Edward revealed to me the horrors that you have done throughout the years?"

Victoria rose swiftly from her stool and as she did so, Lord Alistair automatically unsheathed his sword. Generals Fawkes and Cullen were quick to follow. But Rosalie turned around, putting up a hand and stopping them from approaching. She sat back down and took a deep breath to calm herself.

"I came here, not because I wanted to speak of peace with you. A good Christian should always forgive. But in the name of so many I cannot. You have to see justice, and I came to tell you that; for the lives you have destroyed with your meddling and manipulating and for the people you have killed. I will not turn a blind eye anymore. The time for that has passed."

Victoria's lip trembled. Had it been anyone else, she would have enjoyed the chance to strike fear into them. But it was her little sister, and she could not bring herself to whisper words of malice into her ear. Victoria regained her own composure, alas her shoulders sagged slightly, and her back tensed as she seemed the picture of defeat—the older sibling dealing with the rivalry of an unruly younger one.

"I had hoped it would not come to this," Victoria whispered as her dark eyes gazed into Rosalie's brighter ones. And, for the first time, she saw the shadow of her father's gaze in them. There was a determinedness and decisiveness that unsettled her.

"It has, for the murder of our cousin," Rosalie said with a tremble in her voice.

Victoria looked down, was it a hint of shame that had just touched her features? "And, so, you would start a war for Jasper?" she asked.

Rosalie looked at her sister for a long time, unable to believe where they were standing. History seemed to be repeating itself, in stronger force now. But instead of Magnus and Philip Fell's silent animosity, it had turned into a full-on open battle.

"The moment I found out that you had our half-brother murdered, was the day I lost faith in you. Executing Jasper reinforced that, Victoria," Rosalie said as her voice faltered.

Victoria's mouth fell open as she lost her footing. Rosalie stood up and turned around without another word. She headed for her advisors and the horses. She was trembling, hoping none would see it. The princess made the sign of the cross and kissed her rosary, feeling the eyes of her sister burn her back as she neared the three men.

"Well?" Fawkes wondered for they had not heard anything of the conversation as the princess neared them. The princess halted for a moment, the frown deepening as she turned to look at her sister, who still sat immobile where she had left her. Lord Alistair had rushed to her side as soon as Rosalie left.

"War, my lords."

* * *

 **A/N: I'm home sick today had had the opportune time to post another chapter. I am glad you are liking it so far. The start might feel sluggish, but I hope this chapter showed you otherwise...stuff is about to go down!**

 **I had a friend make a banner for this fic which is displayed next to it. To see it in a larger format, please feel free to visit my tumblr: isabellesumnerff/./tumblr/./com, she worked quite hard on it, let her know what you think! :)**

 **I will try to upload yet another chapter this same week (no promises though!)**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	7. Chapter 7

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 7_

 _July 6_ _th_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

A clap of thunder sounded mighty as horses stormed into the encampment. Isabella emerged from her tent, her heart beating with the same rhythm of the galloping horses. Her Edward was amongst their returning party, safe and unscathed. She went to him, having worried about him ever since he left.

If they returned, she suspected, then a deal had been struck and war was not to happen. There was to be no confrontation. But the sour looks on the many faces told her another story. And the vivid eyes behind the mask spoke a thousand unsung words. Her smile left her face as she reached him, Carlisle and Jacob accompanied by the other lords.

Rosalie picked up her skirts and the princess rushed past them all to her tent, not willing to share a word with anyone.

"One might think the end of the world has transpired," she whispered into his ear with a tremble as he embraced her. Edward sighed, still holding her against him. He did not want to be the messenger of such news. But no time was left other than to act.

"War has officially been declared," he said loud and clear for them all to hear. Many knew this already to be a fact, but hearing it said out loud brought a whole new meaning and weight to the words. Angloa had never seen a conflict like this, a war between sisters for domination over their island.

"We need to prepare, Victoria lurks at the edge of Raven's Grove and the hour draws near for the first battle," Fawkes said to them. The southern lords all gave glances of concern.

"We take our men north today before Victoria can enter the forest and catch us by surprise."

In a confusing hustle, they all alerted the soldiers of infantry and cavalry. The civilian part of the camp started preparing packs for sons, husbands, and brothers. One might have thought there to be a worry and sadness in the air, but only tension and sense of duty now prevailed.

Without a word, Edward sent Carlisle and Jacob a glance, telling them to follow him. He took Isabella's hand and led her to the hospital tent. She had no notion as to why he was leading her away from it all and was about to protest, when he stopped short in front of the tent as everyone around them ran around in a frantic blur.

"Wait here," he told them all, walking into the tent as the nuns and nurses started making beds ready. Some would go with the small army and assist any wounded. There was no time to show fear in the hectic chaos.

Edward walked past the fussing women, all with pale faces as the word of war had spread like wildfire throughout the camp. He reached Sofia who was calmly sorting through her dried herbs. She did not look up as he approached her. "Shouldn't you be instructing the men?" she asked.

"A more important task occupies me right now," he answered.

"It cannot have been to say your goodbyes to me," she said, her eyes finally meeting his. Sofia looked older. It was as if he saw her true age for the first time. There was an air of fatigue that hovered around her as if she had given up on something.

"No."

"You have not forgiven me," she nodded as if she understood. "That is fine. You will, someday."

Edward did not answer that, he did not know how to answer that. A part of him wanted to forgive Sofia. He did not understand why he was avoiding her when he had missed her all those months after the war. "I need you to care for her while I'm gone."

Sofia pushed back the frayed sleeves of her maroon gown, wiping her stained hands on the dirty white apron. "She doesn't need my protection," she said as she wrinkled her nose, going back to sorting her herbs.

"Maybe not, but it would put me at ease," he said tersely.

"And why would you trust me with her?" the gypsy asked as she looked at him straight on.

"Because Claudine trusted you with me, despite not really knowing you. I know you will protect her as fiercely as you did me," he said as the tension within him died down at old memories. He recalled Sofia when she was younger, looking after him like a lioness tended to her cubs. Indeed, all the women in his life had strived to protect him, had influenced him, had molded him into the man he was today.

Sofia did not answer him right away, her hands brushed away some flecks of dried mint as her black eyes slowly rose to meet his forest greens. She merely nodded. "She will not like it," was all that Sofia said before he turned to leave.

Isabella jumped where she stood as he came out of the tent, the rays of the sun absorbed by his black clothing. "Carlisle," he said with a commanding voice, the general in him taking charge. "I want you to meet me at the main tent, tell them I will be there shortly." Carlisle nodded, something deep within the pit of his stomach stirring, it was as if they had traveled back in time. His commander stood in front of him once more, a man of mystery, a man he had only known as General Cullen, Lion of the North. There had been no secrecy then, no hidden prince. Carlisle nodded and stepped away without a word, accustomed to obeying.

Edward took Jacob to the side. "I need you to stay behind, Jacob," Edward said.

"I am not to join you in battle?" Jacob asked with a genuine tone of disappointment. He wanted to fight side by side with his friends. Edward turned to look at a worried Isabella, her brow set in a frown as her fingers kept picking at the muslin of her gown.

"You too need to stay by her side," he answered calmly.

"But why me?" Jacob asked.

"Please don't argue Jacob. If… something were to happen to me," he started, hoping such a thing would not occur. "I need to know that you will transport her safely away from Angloa to her relatives in Spain. Victoria would go after her out of spite, I am certain. Isabella would not be safe. Ignore her protests; you take her across the sea to the peninsula if I fall in battle. I am trusting you with that task," he said low and clear for Jacob to understand. "You were the one who stayed behind when she jumped from that tower in Constantinople—she trusts you, Jacob." It was the slight pleading in Edward's voice that made Jacob see the importance of the mission bestowed upon him. Edward was handing him his most valuable treasure to keep. Jacob realized the amount of trust Edward was placing on him.

"Very well, I will protect her, Edward," he said with a slight nod. The tense shoulders of the masked man fell slightly as if he had found relief in Jacob's words. Jacob left them, making sure that he was able to say his goodbyes to Carlisle as well as some other friends he might not see again.

Edward turned to face Isabella, her arms folded in front of her as her face grew paler still. He took her to the side of the hospital tent, away from prying eyes. "We knew this would come, Isabella," he said after a while as if it was some excuse for him leaving her yet again.

"Knowing it was bound to happen doesn't make this any easier," she said. "You are leaving me again, and there is nothing I can do to stop that."

He took her in his arms and held her as the nervous chatter and orders sounded around them. The flags and banners of the main tent flapped high in the summer wind. It was harder for Edward to go away to this battle because he was leaving her behind. "I will not stay here while others fight in my place," he answered.

"I know you won't, you are not that kind of man."

"I need you to be by Her Royal Highness' side now. She is staying behind, and you have to support her. We all need to play our part in this war. And you must keep an eye on this camp," he said tersely, almost ordering her.

"I will, Edward," she said determined, fully accepting that order.

"And if something happens, if we lose this battle, you are to make sure you get away, that you get to safety. Will you promise me that?" he asked her as he pushed a stray chestnut lock of hair away from her face. She nodded as her lips parted slightly.

He wanted to kiss her, but a reminder in his direction brought him back to his senses. Carlisle stood, waiting. "They ask for you, Edward," he said from the distance.

"Go to them," she whispered. Isabella was willing to let him go, willing to give him up. But she could not bring herself to say the words. To utter farewell would be accepting his leaving her entirely. She received a nod as stiff as ever. In a fleeting moment, they glanced at one another and parted. She stared at his tense back, he did not turn around. If he did, Edward would not be able to leave her side.

He went with Carlisle, making a final stop before heading for the main tent.

* * *

In the tent, they sat. Quiet at first. As quiet as ever. Rosalie grabbed her rosary. She had decided on war because it was the only solution. The lack of warmth in her sister's eyes, how she tried to manipulate every twist and turn of their conversation had shown her that there had never been another choice.

But she was lost before such a massive undertaking, lost before the knowledge that an army waited for them, that first battle was to draw near. It had taken them three days to leave the edge of the forest. Some scouts still remained, tasked with alerting them as soon as anything changed.

"Eight hundred men are at our disposal, Highness," General Fawkes started, daring to break through a stiff cloud of worry.

"Victoria has thrice that number."

"Numbers don't win wars, strategy does," Edward offered.

"What good will our men do before cannons and muskets?" Lord Tyris asked with genuine concern in his eyes. "Forgive me for sounding so abrupt. I might not be the most experienced here, but we face a titan, and men who have fought in battle. Victoria might not know how it all works, but if she has Lord Launël _and_ Lord Savoie by her side as advisors, we cannot afford to falter."

"The way wars are fought has changed the past century when we started using more and more gunpowder. It is still relatively new to most soldiers and _that_ is where we have the advantage. We know how to use our weapons," Saxton interfered. "We have been training them for weeks, one good marksman could well take down ten, if he was in the right position," he continued.

"Indeed, and that is what we must now do. We must carefully use and place our men in strategic positions. We will not face them in an open field, rather make them come to us within Raven's Grove, where we have a chance of beating them," Edward agreed.

"They will never send their men into the forest," Lord Athar said. "They are not fools."

Edward turned to face the old man, his hands clasped under his chin as he leaned back in the chair. "Then we make them come to us," the masked man stated casually.

"How?"

"You leave that to me and some of Saxton's scouts," he stated in confident words. The low voice crawled through the space of the tent and some shivered at the assuredness. However, none would dispute the masked man.

"This battle is decisive. If we win this, we turn the conflict around before it has even started. More men would join our side and we might stand a chance against my sister," the princess said. "I place my faith and trust in you," she offered.

The men in the room all stood up and bowed before their chosen queen. "And so we shall," Lord Athar said in muted tones.

They dispersed. Rosalie had no more words to offer them. She understood she had to stay behind. The battlefield was not her place—not because she was their queen, but because she was a woman. It was unheard that she should stand with the lords and lead what was practically her army.

The day progressed and as night fell, the army was ready. Small torches illuminated the clearing as mothers, wives, and daughters all bid their farewells. Rarely a word was spoken as the soldiers disappeared into the darkness of the trees, swallowed by the woods. They got further away and, soon, only the steady rhythm of their marching could be heard.

Rosalie remained quiet as the last of them were seen. Suddenly the clearing seemed so empty. A large part of it had been trampled down and the once emerald grass was squished, and some earth had started showing through. She made the sign of the cross and sent them a silent prayer. Nicholas stood together with Alan Moore and watched as they left as well. Isabella held Alice's arm and could not help but squeeze it as she watched them leave. Jacob let out a huff of air through his nose, not wanting to show his frustration at having been left behind.

Isabella turned away from the sight. The night breeze caused a shiver to go through her. Sofia's raven eyes twinkled against the blackness, for even she was present, standing back.

"Have you always watched him from the shadows?" Isabella asked as she went up to her.

"I never felt it prominent to say my goodbyes at times like these," she said tightlipped. Isabella nodded in agreement.

"But what if you don't see him again?" Alice asked in confusion as the onlookers went back to their tent to a night of restless sleep.

"If I say farewell I accept that he might not return to me," Sofia answered. Isabella remained silent, staring at the grass swaying at her feet.

Alice did not really know what to respond to such words. She had never really known Sofia other than having seen her at camp. The old woman caused fear within her and rumors circulated that she was a secret witch because the quantities of herbs and potions she stacked in the tent. But Isabella trusted her, so she could not be as fearsome as she had initially thought. When Alice found out the old healer knew Edward, she had accepted her even more—as many others at camp had.

"Then I say we shall see them return, and bring an end to this war soon," she tried in a more cheerful tone. It was hard watching the downtrodden faces of those who had just given up loved ones to what might well be slaughter.

The gypsy locked eyes with the young woman, her raven gaze piercing her to the very core and sending shivers through her spine with their intensity. "Only the dead have seen the end of the war," she answered in enigmatic tones. She turned to Isabella. "You know where to find me. Your mother should soon be well enough to leave her bed." She turned around without another word, leaving them standing there alone.

"Come, Alice, let us go, for the hour is late and I am suddenly very tired," Isabella whispered. The fatigue in her voice was unmistakable.

 _July 8_ _th_ _, 1520 – Nothern border of Raven's Grove_

In the early hours of the morning, Victoria sat by the oil-lamp, unable to sleep. Five days had passed since speaking with her sister. Five days had passed, and they had still not decided what to do. Her lords and advisors saw the situation as difficult. They could not enter the forest for their formations would be weakened. But they knew Fawkes and Cullen would never send their men out into the open where they would be severely defeated.

That was what they all spoke of. But Victoria cared little about it. The look in her sister's eyes was what haunted her so. The warmth and love Rosalie had once held for her was all but gone, it was as if Victoria had been stripped naked before her—as if Rosalie had seen some darkness within her that she herself tried to ignore. Victoria's lip quivered at the thought. She refused to believe herself a bad human being. She could justify every action she had made. It was out of necessity, out of survival. She had no qualms, she could not have. The queen knew that the moment she started questioning her choices, was the moment her position weakened. She could never back down now, it had all gone too far. The only order she had given her lords was that they would go easy on her sister and her army, that they would not attack in full force. Victoria did not want Rosalie destroyed. She wanted her back by her side where she could protect her. The queen still saw the wide-eyed girl she had sent to the cloister with the nuns, the same girl whom she had saved from a fate worse than death: marriage.

This rebellion of hers would disperse, Victoria was sure of that. And she would crush Lord Athar and Fawkes for how they had changed her sister's mind against her. Edward Cullen came to mind. He had betrayed her, and it angered her. But a part of the queen could still not get him out of her mind. Things were changed now, however. There would be no more free will, he would have no more say. When the brief war against her sister was won she would make Cullen hers and punish him for having revealed the secrets she had shared with Jasper Fell. It was Cullen's fault that her sister knew of her past actions. She would punish him and then make him _hers_. Victoria calmed down as she thought of how she would separate him from Isabella Swan, maybe imprison the girl and never have them see each other again.

The queen bit her lip in excitement, she was the only one who could have him, watch him suffer for what he had done to her. She would bring him to his knees. The monarch snickered as she thought back to how Thorpe had bragged about having made Cullen kneel before him in submission.

She watched the light flicker in the lamp as she tapped her fingers on the surface of her desk. Victoria started sensing that she would not have a peaceful night tonight either.

But she went to bed after a few hours and let herself fall asleep.

 _Wessport stood out in the haze. It always did. The Blue Room—her throne room—was dimly lit as she walked in her nightgown with bare feet._

 _On the throne, the crown was placed, gilded in gold and decorated in sapphires and emeralds. Above the throne, the sigil of the Fell family hung proudly. A field of pure white stretched over the coat of arms that represented their family, a mythical Pegasus in gold reared with its wings spread out, representing the ruling monarch. Three crowns were placed under, in a pyramid—representing the original three kings that retook Angloa from the English. 'We stand together', was the family motto engraved in black and bold lettering for all to see. She snickered at the words. Apparently, the makers of the sigil would never come to know the future of the Fell dynasty._

 _She started moving toward the throne and the crown that called to her, ignoring the cold in her feet as she moved over the freezing stones. She ignored the sudden feeling that something was very wrong. Victoria wanted that crown at any cost and she would have it. As she started moving toward it, the white field of her family's sigil started bleeding, slowly, tediously._

 _A man appeared out of thin air, blocking her path to power. She knew him from somewhere, but could not entire place his face._

" _A queen is not born, she is made," he rasped in sad tones. A red slash across his throat appeared as he spoke those words and Victoria immediately recognized her cousin watching her with void eyes. She took a step back in horror as blood dripped to the floor in rhythm with the white field turning red. The coat of arms changed the closer she got to her goal. She pushed past her cousin who put up no resistance._

 _More faces started appearing in the room, some she did not recognize, others she did. She spotted Charles Swan among those faces with the same judging eyes as always. Victoria looked away and continued to head for her throne and her crown. "It is mine," she mumbled to herself._

 _The steps leading up to the throne were bathed in blood from the men and women she had killed throughout her life. But she did not care._

 _Suddenly, a little boy appeared near the last step to her goal. He looked at her with judging eyes and a questioning frown on his face. "Take your seat, Your Majesty," the child said, motioning for her to take the throne and crown. His pale lips thinned, and blood escaped the corners of his mouth. Dark hair clouded his eyes. For the first time, she saw their color, endless black depths with no compassion for her, only loathing. She recognized him as her younger brother—the boy she'd had killed. Victoria hesitated at that moment, but pushed past him, ignoring him as well._

 _She picked up the crown, the metal sharp and cutting her hands. Her own blood dripped to the floor and mixed with the red river beneath her, filling the room with a metallic scent. She ignored the cuts and placed the soiled thing on her head. Its weight forced her to sit on the wooden throne. It cracked underneath the weight, a split running through the middle. But Victoria did not care. She had what was hers. And still, she did not feel complete. She only had a sea of blood running beneath her and the dead watching her in silence with eyes black and emotionless, with skin whiter than snow._

 _One final figure appeared by her side and the woman trembled at the sight of him. Philip Fell kneeled by his daughter's side and pushed a black lock away from her face. His frown mixed with a half-smile._

 _Her eyes started watering at the sight of her father; a father she had loved. She wanted to reach out to him, to be comforted by him. But Victoria realized it would never come to pass. It would not be real._

 _The dead king of Angloa let a tear escape at the tragedy of his daughter. "Victoria," he whispered. It ran straight through her and she started trembling. Victoria tried to stand up, but she was now glued to the wood, the crown started tightening around her head and pushed into her skin, causing droplets of blood to run along her forehead, down her face._

" _Rebecca poisoned you, not I!" she insisted, tears mixing with the blood. The stench of fear was foul in the air as she crumbled more and more under the precious metals and jewels adorning her head._

 _Her father continued to kneel by her side. "Then why didn't you stop her?" he whispered in her ear, condescension, and accusation lacing his voice. It turned more vile, unfeeling and so full of malice, that she thought a devil might have taken over his body. The black eyes turned red as pure evil shone through them._

" _I-I wasn't sure at first—" she stammered but soon realized that she could not utter another word._

 _The eyes of the other's started turning red as well as they all chanted the same words. "A queen is not born, she is made._

Victoria woke up with a faint scream, cold sweat soaking her fully, running down her brow as she was gasping for air. She could not breathe for a second until she situated herself. She was in her tent, not in Wessport. The nightmare faded away, the same nightmare she had had ever since sentencing her cousin to his death. She grabbed at her chest, trying to calm herself, the action futile.

 _July 9_ _th_ _, 1520 – Northern border of Raven's Grove_

No moon, only stars illuminated the plains beyond Raven's Grove. A sea of tents stretched out in the distance, reaching for the black horizon. They sat in the trees, trying to discern what to do next. Edward and Carlisle had been left to think, lounging against the thick tree branches of the outpost in the crown of the oak. Their small army waited below them, Lord Athar and Fawkes speaking in hushed voices, the whispers fleeting up and filtering through them.

Dew had started forming as the humidity of the chilly night pressed against them. Edward's eyes kept searching the outline of the plains.

"We are at a standstill," Carlisle murmured in brief anger. "They will not enter the forest to attack us, for they know we'd have the advantage."

"And they know we would never leave Raven's Grove to charge at them, we would be clearly outnumbered," he added in agreement.

"The odds are different from before," Carlisle said. "When we fought the English we never faced this calamity."

"We did not win over the English because we had more men than now. When they started their invasion, we were more in numbers, yet they kept beating us. Those in charge kept sending men to the slaughter."

"But still, Edward, we would never beat them now head-on."

"And so we return to our first argument. We keep going in circles," Edward offered as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. He had removed his gambeson—the night air was too warm for such a thick garment. He did not wear any armor either.

"Do you know who leads Victoria's army?"

"George Launël, Duke of Idinna," Edward muttered. "He was one of the men that accompanied her during the talks with Rosalie."

"I never thought Launël would take her side," Carlisle spat.

"Well, he always openly opposed King Jasper, so I guess it would make sense that he'd side with her out of convenience," the masked man fumed in equal distaste.

"I have informants in New London and Coldwick, many lords there and in the close vicinity have taken no side yet. They have ignored both Rosalie and Victoria's calls to arms."

"There are reports that the English are investigating the north. They might soon invade us there again. They are using this opportunity to reconquer us." Edward knew the English would invade, Victoria had entered into a deal with them, and with her attention facing south, they would take the north.

"There is little we can do about that now. We must face Victoria first," Carlisle continued. "And it all starts with this battle." He looked down, Athar, Fawkes, and Saxton still in a heated discussion with some other lords who had followed them.

The calm settled again. Carlisle shifted where he stood, hunched in the foliage next to Edward. He paused, looking at his masked friend and then at the sea of tents again. They had scarcely spoken—profound and deep talks where their honesty and true friendship shone through were rare now. They had not taken place since going to Rome, to Constantinople. "You and Jacob are the closest things to brothers that I have," Carlisle mumbled into the darkness.

Edward was caught off guard. "I'm not going to get killed in the battle Carlisle," he retorted dryly. He locked eyes with him letting the words seep in. Edward and Carlisle had never required words to express their friendship. They knew it was there—it did not have to be reaffirmed all the time. "But you two are the same to me," he answered back in the same muted tones.

It was the first time Edward had openly declared their friendship, their brotherhood. It had been Carlisle or Jacob before. But now Edward did so as well.

Carlisle nodded. This conversation, however short it was, had been bound to happen for a long time. It settled the remaining tension between them, bringing them closer as friends and allies. Carlisle felt the relief lift off his shoulders as well.

More time passed by as they pondered what to do next.

A tug at the end of Edward's lips told Carlisle that he had a plan. He looked his friend up and down, no doubt that an eyebrow was raised underneath the mask. Carlisle wore plated armor, shining and loud. It covered most of his upper body and the front of his upper legs. "You will have to change your attire if you are to join me in this endeavor," he said after a while.

Carlisle looked at his armor and bright red gambeson. "What?" he questioned, not understanding what Edward meant.

Edward ignored him and climbed down the wooden outpost, reaching the lords as the rest of the army waited further back in silence. "You have been up there since night fell, please tell me you have come up with something," Saxton said in an arrogant tone.

Edward patted his shoulder so forcefully that Emmett lost his footing slightly. When none looked, he nursed his bruised shoulder, his face twisting at the soreness.

"If we are to fight in these circumstances, we must fight a different type of war with new strategies."

"What do you mean?" Fawkes asked.

"When the English attacked us a few years ago, we still fought in the old formations. While the rest of Europe developed their way of grouping their military, we waged war the same way as we had for hundreds of years. We still used arrows and could not properly fire with fire weapons. That is why they had the big advantage over us in the beginning—they knew how to use gunpowder when we did not," Edward said.

"And then we started using the new methods and defeated them," Athar added matter-of-factly. He already knew the outcome of that war.

"Yes, but we were not on equal grounds then. Now we have two sides with equal knowledge of waging a war, but one side lacks greatly in number. So now we need to find a new way to fight them."

"And what new way is that Cullen? What way could make 800 men defeat a horde of more than 3000?" asked one of the southern lords with his nose in the air. Lord Wilson had joined them, despite having wanted to stay behind. The peer pressure had obliged him to follow in sour obedience.

The black mask turned his way and the giant loomed over him. Intense eyes fixed their gaze on the other, piercing through flesh and bone until the lord felt that the fiery green depths had found their way to his very soul. He took a step back and bit his teeth together, remaining quiet.

"Saxton, give me five of your best scouts, as you promised," he said as he turned to Saxton. "General Fawkes, I am going to need some of that gunpowder you have brought with you," he continued.

Fawkes did not dispute him, despite the fact that their gunpowder reserves were dangerously low. "Are you sure about this, Cullen?" he asked as he stepped closer to the masked man. The lack of fear and strength of determinedness in those eyes did well in reassuring the older man.

"I am," came the reply, the low voice vibrating through the dense forest.

Fawkes nodded slowly. "Then give this man his gunpowder," he uttered as he turned to one of the soldiers who promptly went to fetch some kegs.

Carlisle leaned in close to his friend. "I hope you know what you are doing," he whispered, wary when he caught sight of the devilish smirk now manifesting on the masked man's lips.

* * *

The queen tossed and turned from her nightmares. It was the same all over again. She was jolted out of her sleep, the sweat running down her face, getting into her eyes. She shivered in the lonely vastness of her tent. Her hand reached out into the darkness, reaching for the light. She found the oil lamp and her flint stones and managed to ignite a flame. She calmed as the yellow flames danced calmly within the confinements of the glass.

Her heart settled as the peace and quiet of camp lulled her into security. She was surrounded by hundreds of tents, by a personal guard that would make sure no one entered unnoticed. She was safe, she kept telling herself.

Somewhere another flame lit. But while hers had resulted in a calming light, this one would give a very different result. A few minutes passed as light started touching the horizon—the sun not far away. The flame traveled its road, claiming a black and powdery substance until it reached its final destination. The onlookers held their breath as they waited. The masked one clenched his teeth in anticipation.

A loud boom rocked the camp with such an intensity that its inhabitants all awoke in one swift motion.

Tired and disoriented soldiers stepped out of their shared tents, only dressed in their woolen pants and unlaced gambesons with their hair standing in wild angels. Before any of them could utter a sound, another explosion reverberated through the camp, it was closer this time.

In the confusion of the darkness, the soldiers at the farthest end of the camp started moving to safety. The chain reaction prompted the next man to move away from the unholy sound. _BOOM_. Again, it sounded. The men started shouting in panic now as none could identify from where the intrusion came. It seemed they were being attacked from all sides.

They started moving in the only direction where the explosions would not get them—Raven's Grove.

Victoria stepped out of her tent as the sun peeked over the horizon. It was enough light to allow the queen a view of her army running into danger, away from explosion after explosion. Her commanders and advisors frantically tried to stop the men atop horses—but the animals were more frightened by the loud noise and were promptly off, bolting to the forest, away, right into the trap.

Victoria's lips set into a thin line as she realized what was happening and whom might have lain such a well-thought trap. She lost the strength in her legs when she realized her men were like lambs running to the slaughter.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for such wonderful feedback on the last chapter! I did not have time to upload chapter 7 on Thursday because of work. But here it is, anyway. I hope you will like it!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	8. Chapter 8

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 8_

 _July 9th, 1520 - Northern border of Raven's Grove_

The man crawled through the peaceful morning forest, clutching his wounded leg as best he could. A trail of blood stained the moss and bushes underneath him. He ignored the trembles coursing through his limbs as only his heartbeat rang loudly in his ears. Tears, blood, and sweat stung his eyes as he continued further away, toward safety. He stopped short when he caught sight of a rabbit. The animal stared at him with frightened eyes, its nose twitching. The man locked eyes with it and found a strange sort of peace watching the void depths of its orbs. He found himself estranged in such a position only to realize that the sudden peace was not due to the presence of that rabbit, but rather the blood leaking out of him. Once he understood that he was dying and there was nothing to be done about it, he accepted it. The unknown soldier settled in the dew-covered moss and stared up at the rooftop of the forest.

The sun pierced through in some places and sharp beams flickered with the rhythm of the swaying crowns. Emerald green was the light which bathed him. He no longer heard the music of battle. Only his heartbeat slowing down. He imagined he was not the first nor the last who would perish there. The soldier's face fixed in a faint smile as he accepted his death; his blood dark and invasive against the otherwise peace of the forest. The moment his life left him, the rabbit darted away, as if it knew what had just happened.

The loud clang of steel shrieked together with the massive explosions from the canons. Most of the queen's soldiers had perished within the forest. Some had managed to get back to camp in time to man the cannons.

But it was too late.

As the hours passed and the sun illuminated the field and tree line, more than half of Victoria's men had fallen during the first few hours. The rebels of the forest fought with an impressive strength and a will of iron. The queen had watched the battle in silence—how her sister's army was devouring her own and a shiver pierced her. It was too much to bear. Before the battle could be decided, she had already left for Wessport, never looking back at the destruction left behind.

A small formation of infantry had cut the remaining soldiers off. And it was none other than Edward Cullen who led the charge. The masked devil pushed against the foot-soldiers, evading cannon fire and musket balls flying through the air at an alarming rate.

He had tricked them all, had lured Victoria's men into the forest and played them for fools. Edward had caught them with the element of surprise and Victoria had frowned as she beheld the spectacle. Her army had long since lost and she had left it to Launël and Alistair to gather the troops while she fled with Savoie.

 _10_ _th_ _July – Raven's Grove_

When the brush glided through her hair once more, Isabella shivered despite the summer warmth. She fiddled with her skirts as she looked at the empty chest by her bed.

Renée put aside the brush and sat down with her quiet daughter. She had left the infirmary a few days prior. There had been scarce information to withhold within the hospital and she had spent most of her time sleeping. It wasn't until she had left that she understood the scope of things. Lady Renée was faced with the realization that she had been poisoned, she had always suspected—and it had been confirmed to her after some rather strange questions posed by the gypsy healer. But she would never reveal that to her daughter, of course. Renée shivered to think that such a vile woman as Victoria Fell could be in power. She remembered vividly the day she had been forced from Adelton Hall and made to travel to Wessport—how she had been received and humiliated at court. She recalled how her health had failed the moment she stepped foot into that blasted city.

The mother beheld her daughter. For the first time since her return, Renée was lucid enough to get a good impression of her daughter. The Isabella Swan she had once known seemed lost in the woman that now sat before her. Her air was different, foretelling of a person who had gone through a great change. The lines in her face, the air of fatigue spoke a thousand words. But it was the eyes that told her the most. It alarmed Renée to see Isabella thus.

There was no one there who could inform her of what had happened to Isabella in Constantinople—only speculations. But Renée realized she did not want to know the horror Isabella might have gone through.

She took her daughter's hand in hers. Isabella leaned against her mother, a sigh escaping her as she was embraced. Soon she started rocking her daughter and Isabella wallowed in the nostalgic feeling. She knew Renée wanted to ask her a million questions.

"I heard from Her Royal Highness that you received your father's title back from Victoria," Renée whispered soothingly into her ear. "You are the legitimate heir of Cadherra now, a countess, Isabella," she said, hoping the words would offer some comfort.

Isabella could not prevent the small smile from escaping her. She thought back to the day her mother had forced her to walk to her father's grave. "Father's name is cleared," Isabella whispered back. The thought did bring some happiness. But so many things had transpired since then. Isabella suspected more things would occur before she and her mother could lay Charles Swan to rest where he belonged.

"Indeed—" Renée continued in the same soothing voice "—he has been pardoned and proven innocent by the crown." Isabella heard the relief in her mother's voice as she spoke those words. For neigh two years both women had suffered from the very day Charles had been sentenced to treason until his execution and even after. And, with the flick of a finger, Victoria had cleared his name and made no effort to reinstate his status of a traitor, despite Isabella and Renée having fled Wessport with considered traitors.

"But we cannot lay him to rest on holy ground," Isabella said through gritted teeth. "Not until this war is over, not until the usurper is removed from the throne." There was nothing she was thankful to Victoria for. She had witnessed how the woman had executed her own cousin—she knew Victoria had tried to kill Edward when he was a child, effectively separating him from his mother and then having her killed.

"Isabella," Renée began. "You finished what you set out on doing. I know that your father would have been proud," her mother smiled. "As I am proud of you." She took her daughter's face in her hands. "A time will come when we may bury him. And we will return to Adelton with Alice if you wish. And with Cullen—" Renée paused as she could not hide a frown slipping onto her face. "That is, if you still wish to wed him."

Isabella sat back up with a stiff back on the flimsy cot, brushing the hair away from her face. The chocolate eyes glanced away from her mother momentarily.

"You are not just by his side because you feel a sense of duty toward him, right?" Renée wondered. She could not know the deep emotions coursing through both. She could never know the deep affection the one held for the other.

"Mother, when Lord Braun kidnapped me, it was Edward who came after me. When word reached me that you had been taken to Wessport, he was the one who accompanied me to rescue you," she began. "Of course, I am forever grateful toward him. But it is not why I remain by his side."

Renée admired her daughter's honesty and resilience in character. She could see she was good—for Isabella to care so deeply for a disfigured man. "Then you ignore his disfigurements?" Renée asked. "They…do not bother you?" She did not want her daughter tied down to a man that frightened her.

Isabella could not hide a faint grin. "No, mother…never," she answered truthfully. "The face hiding beneath that mask does not bother me," she continued. There was something her daughter was not telling her—as if it was an inside joke Renée was not aware of.

"Well," Renée said. "Then I shall not interfere."

"You do not object to the match? He is, after all, not a lord anymore."

Renée's eyebrow arched. "I will not object to having the famous Edward Cullen as my son in law, especially not when he has saved my daughter on several occasions—not to mention myself. If he makes you happy, then I welcome him into our family with open arms," Renée said. She took her daughter's hand again to physically show her support.

"Thank you," Isabella responded. She was glad to have her back, glad to have someone she knew she could confide in wholly now. Renée's guilt of having let Isabella get engaged to Edward was washed away when she realized her daughter fully cared for the man. But she vowed she would only support her daughter from now on.

After a while, Isabella left her mother in her tent. Only Renée and Alice could take her mind off her worries, of what Edward might be going through. She wandered around camp, the general air downtrodden, the otherwise smiling faces and quick pacing of the encampment gone with the soldiers. Her feet took her to the edge of the clearing, where Friar Nicholas kept some of his beehives. She did not know why she had chosen to go just there, but she decided to follow her feet.

The young woman stumbled upon none other than Alan Moore, bringing back some cauldrons which he had just washed in the stream. They watched each other in silent tension, Alan unsure of how to proceed.

"My lady," he finally said, stepping away and bowing to her.

Perhaps he had suspected her to lash out at him or to snap at him. But she did no such thing. Isabella offered a silent nod before continuing, letting her feet take her wherever they wanted. She found, oddly enough, that it was Raven's Grove—to slip among the trees and away from prying eyes. She did not want to witness the melancholia of the clearing.

There was none of that in the forest. It held a neutral stance and let her breathe.

The waft of honey floated like sweet perfume in the air and Isabella stopped to enjoy the scent.

Friar Nicholas put back the lid on one of the hives after having gathered enough honey. The bees calmed as he kept spraying the thick smoke. He lifted the net of his hat and saw the young woman standing, hovering by the edge of the forest, caught in the moment of the summer evening.

"Would you like some honey?" he asked, nearing her with the filled jar.

Startled, Isabella turned and faced the older man, his belly protruding and his cheeks rosy with a smile adding a decisive charm to him.

"I am not for sweet things today, friar," she answered. The friar lifted an eyebrow.

"We seldom are when we worry. Come, I have a new batch of mead you might like," he offered as he headed toward the tent. She followed him, walking by the stacked kegs. He poured a small mug of honey mead for her and watched as she sipped the alcohol in silence.

"I never said thank you, for what you did for Alan Moore," he said after a while.

Isabella continued sipping the liquid. "No thanks are necessary," she answered. Her hand twitched slightly as she put the cup aside. "He was almost killed because of my folly. I should be thanking you for making me see sense," she answered, her eyes darting to meet his kind brown orbs. Nicholas leaned against the robust bench, some vegetables casually thrown to be cleaned and chopped for the pottage.

"He is thankful to you, even though he has not said it yet," Nicholas continued.

She settled back on the stool, her face calm, but the drumming of her nails against the cup spoke differently. "Has he… said anything?" she asked after a while.

"More silent than a grave that man. It is as if he has taken vows of silence."

She nodded, not utterly convinced.

"But I suspect that is not your chief worry right now," Nicholas remarked.

She looked down and noticed that she had emptied the whole mug, a frown appearing on her delicate features.

"He will come back, my lady," the friar reassured her.

"You sound very certain of that. Some at this camp might say such assuredness is what leads to men losing their lives, in the end," she responded. Sofia, ever melancholy in her resolve might well have offered such a remark.

"But he will not perish during this battle, of that I am certain," Nicholas tried.

"Why?"

"Because he has someone to come back to," the friar chuckled. "Before he left he came to see me, to confirm something with me."

"And what was that?" the young woman asked.

Nicholas put up his hands in defeat. "Ah, that you will see once he returns," he answered with a mysterious grin.

"Ever the tease, friar," she tsked as he filled her cup again while laughing. The heartfelt sound provoked a chuckle within her as well.

"I am glad to see you smile, my child," he offered. It was then that Isabella noticed her gloomy countenance had disappeared. Friar Nicholas had managed to make her smile. It was the finest gift that she had received in a while. "Worry not, you shall soon know what he came to ask of me."

 _13_ _th_ _July – Raven's Grove_

"My lady, my lady!" Alice exclaimed as she rushed into the main tent. Renée was sitting with her daughter and princess Rosalie in silence. They had been delighting in the other's company for the last few days—the princess quite happy to see Renée so recovered.

Isabella put aside her torn book, her eyes widening in alarm. Was there an attack on camp? "What is it, Alice?" she asked.

"Your Royal Highness," Alice started, turning to the princess. "I beg you forgive my rudeness."

"I will forgive it if you inform us of what has you so excited," Rosalie said as she exchanged a worried glance with Isabella.

"They are back, returned from the front!" she burst out. "They are entering camp now. You must come and see, General Cullen is amongst them!" she said, short of breath.

All three women cast aside their things, Isabella the fastest of them all. Her heartbeat rushed and the blood in her veins blocked out the sound of horses entering the meadow. She gathered her long skirts, the stained and worn brown gown swished around her as she left the tent. Rosalie and Renée were quick to follow.

Soldiers welled in, searching for their loved ones, returned looking the worse for wear. They quickly filled out the empty space they had left behind. Edward Cullen emerged from the trees, accompanied by Carlisle and Fawkes.

Their endeavor had been a successful one, all could tell.

Isabella did not care. She rushed for Edward, ignoring all else. Renée watched her daughter run for the masked man. Rosalie looked at the brunette as well, squeezing through the returning heroes, pushing her way past to get to her goal. The forest of returning men, cheering in celebration, was forgotten the moment he saw her. Her dress—brown, stained and ugly—could not take away from the beauty that wore it.

The soldiers dispersed as she reached him. Edward dismounted his calico horse, a smile on his lips and his arms opening for an embrace. She jumped into his arms, ignoring the stains of blood, ignoring the smell of gunpowder and metal. His own scent pushed through—pine, sandalwood and a hint of leather. His own sent, a scent she would never forget. It was the only perfume in the world for her. She buried her face in his chest and held him hard, ignoring the looks they were getting. Isabella's reaction was no different from another wife's or sweetheart's. The only difference was that the man she hugged was Edward Cullen.

"We won!" Fawkes bragged for all to hear. A cheer erupted as the soldiers celebrated. But Isabella paid little heed to those words, she placed her hand on Edward's covered cheek.

"And you are home, with me," she whispered to him. It was all that mattered to her. It was all that mattered to him.

Renée saw how her daughter welcomed the masked man back. Rosalie saw it too. "Today brings you a victory, Your Royal Highness," Renée stated.

Rosalie's eyes were fixed on her army—on the victorious returned from battle. "This will be a hard blow for my sister," she simply stated, neither showing joy nor sadness.

Renée turned to the princess. "I ignore what comes next," she began. "I am only glad that this battle did not bring misfortune to my daughter's own happiness." The mother watched her daughter.

"There will come more battles, Lady Renée," Rosalie confirmed. "Many more, I fear," she said through bitten teeth. Rosalie worried still, for now Victoria must have realized she could not simply cast her away—Rosalie was yet another player in the game. It would make her sister nervous, anxious even. It would make her lash out fully.

Her generals, lords, and advisors came to her tent—sitting around the table, informing her of what had occurred. The princess remained quiet as the various events of the conflict were told and how they thought they should proceed.

"I wish to remind you all, that my sister did not strike with her full force. Let us not get ahead of ourselves," she warned.

Athar nodded. He had dressed down in the heat, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. There was a lack of formality in the camp, an air of relaxation now that they were away from court. "Your Royal Highness is quite right. We cannot make rash decisions now. We still need more men," he stated.

"And more men will join. We have just proven that we can defeat Victoria. We bested her army three to one," Fawkes said, smashing his closed fist on the table as the grin spread across his features. The fight seemed to have reinstated his former vigor. There was a fire in his eyes; a fire and life that Edward had not seen since Wessport.

"The rest of the southern lords will join you, Your Royal Highness. Of that I am certain," Lord Tyris offered.

"If we act quickly, we could amass an even greater army and push north," Theodor Glovendale interceded. "Send me to Coldwick and let me speak with the lords there."

"Should we truly act so quickly?" Rosalie wondered.

"Your Royal Highness," Edward said. "The English have taken note of our strife and are lurking on the northern borders. We need to finish this war before they decide to invade us again."

"Victoria must still be regrouping after this defeat. If we act quickly and gather a bigger army we might well claim Sorossa—maybe even New London," Saxton said. He was eager, and they noticed. Sorossa—his old family seat was something he had wanted back for a long while. He knew it would never bring back his dead wife and child, but it would settle some of the pain and conflict within him.

"I know what Sorossa means to you, Saxton—" She paused. " _Lord_ Saxton, as it always should have been. I think you should have been reinstated your title a long time ago."

Saxton's mouth dropped. Just like Charles Swan, his name had been restored fully, with the snap of a finger. They all saw it glow in his eyes, the weight that slowly slipped off like rainwater, the calm and tranquility it would bring him. He kneeled. "Thank you," Saxton whispered. Rosalie nodded at him, her gaze resting a bit too long on the handsome young nobleman. Then she turned to the men present again, looking at them for answers.

"Before we can claim Sorossa, we need to cement our stance in Cadherra. We are still refugees of Raven's Grove. We have not even a fortress guarding us. The best we can do now is to take Adelton Hall," Lord Athar offered in a kind voice.

They looked at Edward. "What do you think, Cullen?" Fawkes asked, still cheerful. "Are we up for it? Do you wish to reclaim your castle?"

"Adelton Hall and Cadherra are no longer in my possession, it belongs to the Countess of Cadherra: Lady Isabella Swan. But I suspect it would send yet another message to Victoria if we claimed it. It used to be the old royal seat, after all. I think, my lords, that if we can take Adelton, we will have fewer problems rallying the southern lords."

"We go for the castle first, then?" Rosalie asked. "It is Lord Quinn who guards it, and I know him to be a good fighter and decent warrior."

"I know the layout well, and I know the villagers of Hayes will gladly help when they hear it is for Lady Swan and her mother. It is a fortress, but we do not have to knock on their door with an army. Sneaking in and opening up the doors from the inside should be sufficient. The servants of the castle would help us as well," he said.

"We _are_ closer to Adelton and Hayes than we are to Sorossa. If all goes well, we could have the castle within the week, and a bigger army by the end of the month," Athar nodded, smiling at Edward. "Quinn may have Adelton, but he does not have enough men to hold out for long, even if we were to besiege him." He had laced his fingers together, listening to the strategy of the masked man. His way of waging war seemed different now from when fighting the English. Athar was amazed at how fast and quickly Edward adapted to the different difficulties and situations he was faced with.

"And Raven's Grove would still be a barrier between us and Victoria's forces. She would not enter it, and we are inland—she cannot reach us by ship. Should she come, we can always escape back," Glovendale agreed.

"I can already smell yet another victory coming our way, my lords," Fawkes uttered with excitement, stroking his goatee as he leaned forward.

"How soon can we be on our way?" Saxton asked.

Rosalie held up a hand, interrupting the discussion. "We let the soldiers rest. You all just returned. Some days at least. And, this time, we travel to the border of the forest with you," she added. The intricate eyes drifted over to Edward. He knew she was buying him some time to spend with Isabella before he had to go again. The masked man nodded lightly in thanks. The corner of Rosalie's mouth twitched as she inclined her head toward him as well.

* * *

The young woman had been looking for Edward for hours. But he was nowhere to be seen. After his return—after their initial embrace, he had left to speak with the princess and her advisors. After that, Edward Cullen had disappeared like smoke. With her heart in her throat, thinking that something might have gone wrong, she pushed onward to the infirmary. It was past midnight, the early hours in the morning.

"Sofia," she said, finding the woman next to the bed of a badly wounded soldier. Several of them had been brought to her care, some of the dead had already been buried, others were on the brink. But most had only received lighter wounds, escaping with mere cuts or even bruises.

"He is not here," she said without looking up, smacking the soldier when he moved. "I told you to be still!" she growled.

"Forgive me, señora, but you are being very rough," he dared say back. Sofia only snickered at him, finally shutting him up.

"But has he been here? I have not seen him since he left for the tent and Her Royal Highness says she has not seen him either." Sofia straightened and put down the poultice.

"You saw him come back unharmed, did you not?" she asked.

"I did."

"Then what are you worrying about?"

"Is this what he always does? Ignoring us after coming back from battle? Is this what he did with you?" she dared ask.

Sofia stiffened at the outburst. The soldier, uncomfortable with where the conversation was going, shifted again—receiving yet another slap from the gypsy. "Go on, let sister Anne finish cleaning your wound," she muttered as she handed the poultice to the novice. Sofia dried her hands with a filthy linen cloth, turning to face Isabella.

"Maybe he wants some time for himself. Battles are no pretty things and clearing his head might be beneficial for you, stop worrying and being so selfish," she spat. It was obvious that the old woman was in a bad mood.

"I did not mean to be selfish, señora."

"And yet, here you stand, shouting to the four corners of the world, looking for him. Let him have some peace for now."

Isabella stepped forth, anger rising within her. "Maybe that is how you deal with him, letting him process everything by himself. But not I. I could never be as cold as you, no matter how much I tried. Every night I was kept awake with the mere thought that he might be killed, might be beaten down, might suffer. Every night I tossed and turned from worry," she hissed.

The gypsy put down the cloth and stepped closer to the young brunette. Her black eyes pierced the brown orbs. But no malice was within them, only a void masking something Sofia did not wish to show. "There is nothing I would not do for that boy. But he has always been surrounded by danger, sadness, and misery. If I allow myself to be worried for him, I would long since have perished from heartache. I am certain my heart would have given out." Raven orbs looked at the faint circles under Isabella's eyes. "And the same thing will happen to you if you do not come to terms with that."

"How can I not worry about him?" she lamented.

"I never said it was easy." Sofia looked behind Isabella as if she had seen a familiar face. "I am certain _he_ might know where Edward is.

Jacob sprang forth to the young woman. "Isabella, you have to come with me," he blinked. Jacob seemed ecstatic.

"At this hour of the night?" Isabella frowned. Alice appeared right behind him.

"Isabella, you _must_ go with him," she answered, just as jittery. It was clear that they knew something she did not. She took her friend's hand, trying to bring her with her. Isabella looked back at Sofia who put up her hands.

"Not my doing," she defended as the young woman was guided out of the tent and to her own. They walked in hushed steps, two horses stood saddled and ready.

"Where are we going?" Isabella asked. "It's almost three in the morning!"

But both kept their lips tightly shut. "Be quick about it, Alice. We need to be there before dawn," Jacob whispered in the young woman's ear. Alice nodded her head vigorously.

"Patience, Sir Black, patience," she offered as a confused Isabella frowned at their strange banter.

Isabella was then guided into her tent, her mother nowhere to be seen. "Lady Renée has been persuaded to keep Her Royal Highness company this night," was all Alice offered. It was only then that Isabella suspected something out of the ordinary.

In the flicker of wax candles, a gown had been prepared for her, strewn out on her cot. What first caught her attention was the intricate attention to detail in which it had been sewn. The material was quite simple really, a flowy fabric in the purest of whites with burgundy thread outlining the bodice. In the flicker of the candles, she spotted silk brocade in parts of the fabric in the same pure white. The bodice was higher than was usual, with no point, making the dress appear softer, a belt in matching burgundy lay next to the dress.

"Alice," she turned with a questioning glance. "What is all this?"

"Let me help you put it on and Jacob will explain on the way." Isabella looked back at the garment, she had never known how a simple piece of cloth could take one's breath away. Yet this managed that and more. Isabella almost feared to put it on, as if she would not do it justice.

Alice helped her into it and then gathered her hair into braids, securing them in a white net laced with pearls. A simple necklace in polished silver with a single pearl was placed on the small table next to the cot.

The dress was indeed simple. But she found beauty in its simplicity. And it had been expertly sewn by one who knew their craft. "Where did you get this dress?" she asked after a while.

Alice smirked. "When you return I shall tell you," Alice answered. Isabella kept looking at the garment for she recognized the craftsmanship well.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say Signora Coticelli had a hand in this dress," she murmured.

Alice kept her mouth firmly shut still as she put the _trinzale,_ the hairnet, on Isabella's head, interlacing it with the braids until forming one long braid ending up at the middle of her back. Her chestnut locks were pulled back, away from her face instead of the usual middle part. But Alice felt this framed Isabella's face in a more favorable manner. She hung the matching necklace around her neck. Lastly came a shawl in thick, red wool, for the dress was light and thin even for a summer night.

The young woman started realizing what was going on. Her heart sped up as Alice came to stand before her. "I shall see you in the morning, Isabella," Alice said. There was an air of disappointment, for she was not allowed by the others to attend. Yet, she had a suspicion why that was.

Jacob had waited patiently, growing nervous as dawn neared. He knew they were already late and Edward had specified that they be there before sunrise. No doubt he wanted everything to line up perfectly with the first rays of the sun.

He was, however, not prepared for the woman who stepped out of that tent. In the faint light of the moon, her white dress shone with an ethereal glow, the light fabric swaying around her feet. The pearls in the trinzale catching the twinkle of the stars. She looked out of this world, transformed by some pieces of fabric.

But she grew steadily nervous as well, clutching the material, her heart frantic in anticipation. But this was what she had been waiting for so long. Jacob took her to the horses, helping Isabella up on her mare and off they went, in the cover of darkness. The dark shawl protected her from further insight, and if some scouts had seen them leave camp, they let it slide this time.

She followed her friend through the darkness of Raven's Grove. Jacob navigated through the snarling and twisting branches, the treacherous and slippery moss like it was the back of his hand. The air pressed on them; as if it had been contained within that space for hundreds of years. Each time the leaves rustled in the wind, a faint waft of their scent filled her nostrils—the scent was comforting, welcoming and soothing. It reminded Isabella of her childhood, of when she had played in the lower gardens of Adelton Hall. The same fragrance had been present. In the darkness of the night, it grew more alluring, mysterious. Her mare treaded with careful precision as Isabella let herself be taken further into the woods—into the very heart of the forest. Jacob slowed down so that he rode next to her. She could not read his face in the darkness, but she suspected a smile was on his lips.

"How long has this been in the making?" she asked after the pleasant stillness started growing boring.

His head moved her way, she suspected he'd cast a glance in her direction. "Not long enough," he chuckled. Jacob did not see why Edward had to rush such a thing until that very night. They would be off on another campaign soon. Despite not wanting to see it that way, Edward was taking precautions in case something happened to him. And he was keeping his word after all these months. But, the young man realized, Edward was doing this for one single reason—because he truly wanted to. This was one thing he did not do out of obligation to anyone. He did it out of sheer will. Jacob was proud to be a part of that.

And what of Isabella? He snuck a glance her way. Did she wish this? The white of her dress managed to catch every ounce of starlight and moonbeams—thus lightening up her face in a silver sheen. A blush had crept onto her features and a warmth had filled her eyes that she let flow freely. Jacob looked away, as if he was seeing something he oughtn't have. Isabella had, in the false assumption that he could not read her face in the darkness, let her mask slip. And she looked most willing to go through with this as well.

A silent peace clung all around them as they felt no need to break it with excessive chatter. Isabella was happy that it was Jacob who would take her. Jacob had, after all these months, been through a lot for and with her. He had grown into family, into something akin to a brother. Ever since Constantinople, she had realized that. And she was lucky to have him by her side.

The darkness subsided. They had been riding the better part of one hour, now far from camp and from anyone who would stray from it. But they were also far from the road that cut through the woods. They were in the very heart of Raven's Grove where no soul might have stepped foot in decades—even centuries perhaps. Everything looked so untouched, almost as if it was a sacred place.

The woods were thicker and denser here. The clearing small enough so that only a dozen people might fit in it. The crowns did not quite disperse and, as dawn was now but half an hour away, the light filtering through was a mix of emerald and sapphire. The blanket of grass on the ground was dotted with flowers in lavender and vermilion. The trees were high, their crowns making up the roof of the meadow. It strangely appeared as if it was nature's own cathedral; the trees being the pillars and beams supporting the structure of the building. The emerald and sapphire sheen grew fainter and fainter as dawn pressed on.

And, in the midst of that perfect meadow, bathed in the light of jewels, stood three men waiting for them.

Isabella's throat closed up as she realized the only reason Edward had been absent since his return was because he had been preparing this. She got down from her horse and spotted the masked head turning her way, his forest orbs catching her chocolate ones from across the field as the flowers and grass swayed. Carlisle stood by his side, a smile tugging at his lips as his hands were clasped in front of him. And, behind them, standing on a makeshift wooden altar which they must have brought with them, stood none other than Friar Nicholas, dressed in the same old habit.

"When Edward told me of his plan, I asked if I might be the one to give you away to him," Jacob murmured as he removed her shawl and placed it across the saddle of her horse. "Since your father could not be here," he continued nervously. He had hoped that he did not sound too impertinent. "And since you have grown to be like a sister to me. I hope I did not cause offense," he blushed.

The young woman turned to him, her hands taking his and squeezing them affectionately. "Nothing would make me happier, Jacob," she said.

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter there for you. I just got home, it is really late and there might be typos! I'll look at the chapter again in the morning! :)**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	9. Chapter 9

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 9_

 _July 6_ _th_ _, 1520 – Raven's Grove_

He left Isabella despite every ounce of his body fighting against it. Edward Cullen headed for the kitchens with only one thought in mind—a reason to return rather than anything else.

Friar Nicholas was busy cleaning. Aside from having peeled carrots the whole morning, he did not look up when the masked man entered, for he already knew who he was. The tall shadow breaking through the light filtering into the tent was a dead giveaway to the identity of General Cullen.

"Do you seek my blessing before leaving for the front?" Nicholas wondered as he put aside the makeshift broom, wiping his hands on the brown habit. Many men would usually return to their faith when they faced a crucial moment in their life—such as a battle. He was surprised, however, for the masked man did not seem the sort.

"I came to say that I agree to your terms," Edward said hastily, his voice slipping into his usual growl, despite himself. It caused Nicholas to take an involuntary step back. His eyebrows knitted together, confused at first, until he realized what Edward was talking about.

"You wish to be married _now_?" he exclaimed.

The masked head dropped. "No, not now. But when I return. I do not know when that will be or if I will. However, I will not put this aside anymore. I want to wed Isabella Swan upon my return and I want it to be done properly."

Nicholas nodded with a vacant expression. "You would be wed in Raven's Grove."

"I have no qualms about that, about this forest," he replied. "Will you agree to this? The day of my return we set in motion the preparations for this wedding."

"Do you have witnesses?" Nicholas asked.

"Jacob Black and Carlisle Chaeld."

Nicholas nodded. "And are you willing to bare yourself when the time comes?"

"Only if you give me your solemn word that you will not breathe a wisp of it to anyone."

"General," Nicholas frowned. "I take whatever is behind that mask with me to the grave," he said gravely.

A bow confirmed then that Edward agreed to Nicholas' terms. Upon the masked man's return, the friar would set things in motion. He was already preparing. "Speak with Jacob Black about finding a place for the ceremony—away from prying eyes. He knows the forest better than most here." And with those words the masked man left him, heading to speak with Alice.

 _July 6_ _th_ _, 1520 – Hayes_

Since having left Adelton Hall, Hayes had changed. It was subdued, seemingly gloomy and gray. Alice hid in the shadow of a building as some soldiers from the castle patrolled the streets. Lord Quinn had taken up residence by order of the queen.

But Alice had a mission and she would go through with it. She still remembered Edward Cullen searching for her, entrusting her with a great challenge. She needed to get a dress before his return from the front. At first, Alice did not understand what the masked man wanted with a dress. But when he pushed a bag of coins in her small hand and told her to get a fitting dress for Isabella Swan, she suddenly realized.

And Alice would indeed get the best garment the whole of Angloa had to offer—if she so had to give her own life for it she would find it.

She did not hesitate and headed through Hayes on her way to Coldwick that very same day, just as the men left camp. By late evening, some friends had taken her up in their house—no questions, no inquiries as to why she was there. They did not wish to get involved. Alice soon spread the word that she was looking for a seamstress. Now, Edward might have been just as happy with an already made dress. But what would he know of such things? No, it had to be better than that, Isabella deserved that at least. With the addresses of several women, she visited them, not quite pleased with what she found.

Until arriving at the last location.

It was a run-down building at the edge of town, yet, within the window, she saw colorful fabrics draped, lights flickering and women running about keeping the hectic tempo. They paid her little heed as she entered, engulfed in their work. It was, in all sense and purpose, an open workshop, no backroom. Everything was done in the front of the little shop.

"Have the Byzantine silks arrived yet?" a woman croaked in an Italian accent. Alice jumped, her eyes widening as she recognized that voice. For only one woman could hold that proud and stern voice.

Antonia Coticelli.

And, indeed, it was the Italian seamstress. Her red hair with streaks of silver stood out against the taffeta and brocade. Her own personal gown as tasteless as ever—too accessorized—too much volume. The petite woman was positively engulfed by it. Her hands were going in all directions as she muttered in brash Italian to herself. It was at that very moment that she caught sight of Alice. One look was all it took before she too recognized the once maid of Isabella Swan.

" _Cara_!" she exclaimed as she walked up to her. "What are you doing here?" She stretched her neck to get a view of the street outside the window. "Is your _donna_ here?" she wondered—thinking she might catch sight of Lady Swan herself.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Alice couldn't help but ask. "I thought you resided in Wessport!"

"Bah!" she exclaimed, disgusted as the shop maids kept running around. "I will not set foot in that disgusting city. I can still smell the scent of blood whenever I close my eyes—a rather bad imprint it has left in my memory. I left, like so many others."

"And you came to Coldwick, of all places?" Alice asked confused.

"Si, to Coldwick," she sneered at the young woman before her. "For I went to the other places of note, and all the competitors ran me out of town the moment I started gaining fame. I should have stayed back in the shadows!" She threw her arms in the air, dramatic as she lamented. "But they did no such thing here in Coldwick, so I decided to stay. The townspeople have been quite good to me and I have helped improve their poor sense of fashion," she continued, with a rather pleased tone.

Alice clutched her dress. This was perfect. Utterly perfect. "Might I speak to you in private, signora?" she asked with all the courtesy she could muster. Antonia's eyebrow arched, she could already sense the comeuppance sailing her way. The Italian gestured for the young woman to follow her up the stairs to her study. Yet, the commotion and hustling could not entirely be blocked out, even with the door shut.

"Your donna did send you, yes?" Antonia asked as she settled behind the desk. Great stacks of documents tumbled over, spilling on to the floor. Half-finished gowns and other garments lay in a careless pile in one corner, dust collecting over it.

"Isabella does not know I am here," Alice said quietly, as if she were afraid that Antonia would spill her whereabouts in that instant.

She did seem surprised by that fact. "And why are you here, then?"

"Why would one visit a seamstress, signora," Alice countered. "If not for the service she provides."

"You wish a gown?" Antonia asked. She was completely lost now. "Tell me, girl, what on earth would you do with one of my gowns in the middle of Raven's Grove?"

"I never said the gown was for me."

"So this _is_ for Swan!" Antonia exclaimed, getting up from her seat. "I knew it!"

"Please," Alice implored, hushing the excited Italian. "I urge you use discretion in this matter. No one is supposed to know I am here for Lady Swan."

"My girl, was I not discrete when I made her that dress in Wessport? Do not fear, my lips will remain sealed."

Alice settled down in the flimsy chair, calmed. "Then yes, I require a gown for her ladyship. The finest piece of garment you can put together before the end of the week."

"A _week_? My dear, do you know how long a gown takes to make?" She had strolled over to the dirty window, looking out onto the street, her back facing Alice.

"I know the conditions are not the best. But if anyone can make this work, then it is you, signora."

"No, no, never in a week. And what would she use this gown for, what is the occasion? I suspect Lady Swan will not come here herself."

"She does not know."

"This gown," Coticelli continued. "What will she wear it for?" Her features smoothed as she became pensive. Many reasons could be used for ordering a new gown. But not when the woman in question was trapped in the middle of savage woods with little access to the outside world.

Alice hesitated. She knew how determined both Edward and Jacob had been that Isabella was kept unaware. The masked man had even been hesitant to bring _her_ into the fold. "Can I count on your complete and absolute silence in this matter?"

"I swear it on my soul, cara," she said with such conviction, with such honesty that Alice was inclined to believe in her.

"A wedding is what this gown will be for."

Antonia's eyes almost jumped out of their sockets and she choked on her own spittle as she had tried to speak too hastily. "Wedding?" she shouted. "And she does not know?" Antonia had conjured up the image that Isabella was being forced to marry Edward. The moment Alice realized that she jumped out of her chair.

"The secrecy is not because we are luring her into this, signora! She wants this as much as General Cullen. But the circumstances are difficult. They have waited long for this—too long. So Edward thought it best that preparations be made for his return from the front. He… did not wish for Isabella to know of this in case he did not return. He thought it would only serve to further worry her."

After having heard the revelation, Antonia settled down, quickly understanding the necessity of secrecy. "I see," she muttered to herself. "My dear," she looked at Alice. "It is a noble thought, but you have waited too long. A week is not enough time to prepare a gown like this without raising suspicion."

Alice went to Antonia's side, sinking down next to her where she sat. "Please, Signora Coticelli—it does not have to be a masterpiece, just a change from the plain and simple garments my lady now wears. Edward knows this will be a hasty ceremony. He wants at least one part of it to be done right—to be special." She pressed the entire bag of coins into the Italian's hand.

But Coticelli shook her head, pressing it back into Alice's hands. "How could I ask for payment in advance when I do not even know that I will be up for this feat."

" _Please_ ," Alice begged. The one task she had been given had to be executed. She could not fail, not now.

The pleas pulled at the strings of Antonia's heart. She remembered Isabella with tenderness. "To think, after all this time, that she is so strong in her resolve to marry that man. I knew of his affection for her—we all heard of him chasing after her when that brutish lord took her away. I never the feeling was mutual."

"It is, and it grows each day. So, will you add to this and make her a gown worthy of this ceremony?"

Antonia looked at the office, at the clothes she had been working on, thrown in a big pile. It was a challenge like no other. But if it was one thing the tiny Italian liked, it was a challenge.

"Return in six days and we shall see what I have prepared for you, cara," she smirked. Indeed, her mind had settled, and she would do all in her power to see it through. Antonia already had an idea forming in her mind, an idea that was so strange and out of the ordinary that it just might work. The color white kept meddling in her thoughts and, it was then that she knew what she would make for Isabella.

 _14_ _th_ _July – Deep in Raven's Grove_

Edward kept fussing with the tight collar of his doublet. Carlisle had lent him one of his better-looking garments. It was in dark-blue silk brocade with a white shirt beneath ending in a high collar. The hoses were his usual black ones, but his boots sported silver buckles and his sword was nowhere to be seen.

"Stop twitching, Edward," Carlisle murmured. "You are making me nervous," he chuckled. Nicholas joined in the chuckle.

"I am afraid it cannot be helped, my boy," the friar offered.

"They are late," Edward growled, flexing his muscles under the tight doublet. Dawn neared. It was getting lighter by the minute. He had planned it all so carefully. That they should be late would take away from the final surprise he had thought of.

"Patience," Nicholas assured him. "She will be here."

And the moment fleeted by, until they heard the sound of horses breaking through the stillness of the morning. Her gown appeared out of the dense darkness like a specter, breaking through the dark-green canopy, flowing around her in an unearthly glow. The pearls in her hairnet caught the glimmer of dawn, glittering peacefully in the morning. The bluish tint died away slowly, as if night said its final goodbye.

Jacob helped her off the horse and Edward's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. His mouth went dry and, for the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words; his heart speeding up at the sight before him. Isabella stood out in the white gown, whiter than the purest of snow, whiter than the wings of a swan.

"The time has come, Isabella," Jacob whispered in her ear, offering her his arm. "Will you let me lead you up to him?" The young woman was still taken with the sight of her Edward, standing in the light of the clearing. She reached for the arm, never really looking at it. Her eyes were glued to Edward—her final destination; her goal.

They walked through the dew-covered grass as silence enveloped them. But it was not a complete silence. Rustling leaves, sighing winds breaking through crown tops, the distant birdsong and hooting of an owl was the symphony that serenaded her walk to the makeshift altar. The forest offered her a delightful melody, almost unearthly, simple, yet full of light and life.

She kept pace with Jacob while looking at the tallest man of the three. His eyes were so clearly visible beneath the mask. At one time in her life, she had ignored the presence of those green orbs—how could he ever hade hid them from her? A shadow had stretched over them, never showing them to her. But he was seemingly displaying everything before her now.

Jacob squeezed her arm.

"Breathe, Isabella," he whispered in her ear with a calming yet playful tone. It was in that moment that she noticed she had not taken a single breath. Once she did, the scent of the forest—its earthy freshness—filled her nostrils, the perfume rivaling anything that man had ever created. Nothing compared to the richness, to the peacefulness it induced within her. The trail of her gown dragged behind her and stirred up the emerald grass, its scent mixing with the freshness of the air.

When she walked up to Edward, Jacob took her hand and kissed it, his eyes meeting hers. He was handing her over to the masked man, handing her over as her father would have, had he been alive. Edward removed his gloves, ignoring if Nicholas saw his bare hands—he would take Isabella as he was, with an openness he had never displayed before. The gesture touched her, for she understood its meaning completely. The spark of electricity coursing through them could not be ignored as flesh touched flesh.

Jacob stepped to stand by Carlisle' side and the couple turned to face Friar Nicholas who had patiently waited for his moment to come. He beheld them with a gentle demeanor and Isabella felt safe in the presence of those men. Nicholas had managed to acquire a very torn, small, Bible, manuscripts like those were indeed expensive and usually hard to come by.

"I ignore that we are only five in this meadow here today. I will treat this ceremony like any other. For this meadow shall be our cathedral, and the souls of this forest our witnesses," he smiled. He received small nods and, thus, continued. Words they were so familiar with now rang through the clearing, with a faint echo bouncing against the tree trunks.

"You have come together into the house of the Church. In the presence of the Church's minister and the community you intend to enter into Marriage so that it may be strengthened by the Lord with a sacred seal." His voice echoed peacefully through the clearing, bouncing softly against the trunks and rustling leaves covering them.

"May your love be enriched with his blessing, so that you may have the strength to be faithful to each other forever and assume all the responsibilities of married life," Nicholas stated in a clear and pleasant voice. The waft of honey could not be ignored as they stood so close to him. "And so," he continued. "In the presence of the Church, I ask you to state your intentions and to prove your truthfulness to one another." She felt Edward's eyes on her, felt how they burned through everything—even through the invisible air that surrounded them.

"Edward and Isabella, have you come here to enter into Marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?" Nicholas asked them as he held the Bible close to his heart.

"I have," Isabella and Edward answered as one, never once turning to look at the friar, their gazes were fully fixed on one another. The bride started blushing as Edward's gaze intensified. He squeezed her hand a little and offered a smile. It was warm, different from the cold leather she had grown so used to. His touch was different, the rough skin, the skin of a warrior managed to lick a fire within her. She squeezed his back and stared into his green orbs, her whole body growing warmer at the sight of him.

"Are you prepared, as you follow the path of Marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?"

"I am," they answered again.

Nicholas turned now to Edward, for it was the hour of truth. "Edward, are you prepared to bare yourself before God and before your bride in a show of truth and faith?" he asked.

Edward did not hesitate when he answered. "I am."

"Then please remove your mask," Nicholas continued casually.

Isabella's eyes widened for she was not prepared for that part. She turned to Nicholas and to Jacob and Carlisle. "Wait, what?" she asked in fear and confusion. "Edward," she turned back to him. "What is this? You have to remove your mask?" she asked as her voice shook. Carlisle and Jacob frowned as well. But they realized this was part of the ritual. Only, in other ceremonies, when the bride wore a veil, it would usually be the other way around. It was a formality, not usually applicable to the groom. But Edward's case was different. According to Angloan law, if any party had their face covered, this was the time that they removed that covering. Isabella had ignored that part, she had never thought Nicholas would actually enforce it.

Edward took both her hands in his, steadying her as he calmed her. "It had to be done this way, for us to be married. And I want this to be done in the right way."

"But Nicholas will _see_ ," she hissed, turning to the friar. "Have you no shame? How can you demand he uncover himself, how can you give him such an ultimatum?" she asked him, despair stirring in the pit of her stomach.

Nicholas frowned, understanding her protective stance for Edward. "I am not forcing him, Lady Swan. But it is true that, for this marriage to be considered true, we have to proceed with this formality. I assure you that I will never judge him on what I see. Just as you have managed to look past whatever his face may be and love what is within, so _I_ shall do and respect the man that he is. I swore on the cross, before Edward and God, that I will never reveal what I see here this morning."

"I have already spoken with him of this, I have prepared for this," Edward leaned in and whispered. "Fear not, Bella," he smiled in her ear. She steadied herself. She would trust him, trust that he knew what was best. Alas, the young woman could not ignore her erratic heart as the ceremony continued.

"Then, Sir Cullen, I repeat what I said earlier. Are you prepared to bare yourself before God and before your bride in a show of truth and faith?" he asked.

Edward's eyes never left hers, never flinching never looking away. "I am."

"Please remove your mask," Nicholas continued.

His hands left hers, their warmth seeping out into the morning chill. Her lips parted while she stared. Indeed, they all stared. Edward reached for the tied laces, meticulously working them free. Wind sighed, birds sang, and a small animal broke a twig in the depth of the woods. The sun almost touched the horizon now, mere minutes away until golden rays would spill onto the forest.

The leather came undone and she heard his sigh of relief as he removed it. And there it was, that perfect face—a face she could still not place with the man she had grown so used to. The hair was still too long, his face unshaven. He pushed the copper locks away from his face as he gave the mask to Jacob. His friends were still unaccustomed to seeing that face, for he had only been unmasked in their presence once before.

And what of Nicholas? Edward had not turned to look at him. The friar saw the profile of the unravished face and did not understand at first the necessity of the mask. But as time passed, Nicholas understood too well why Edward Cullen shielded his face. If the revelation unnerved, frightened or surprised him, he never once showed it. But Carlisle could see that his hands gripped the Bible tighter than before.

"Since it is your intention to enter the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and His Church," he said. The unwavering voice did falter, but Nicholas did his best to mask it. He cleared his voice and took a deep breath as Isabella and Edward joined their hands, gripping them tightly, warmth coursing through their skin.

Nicholas cleared his voice again, his hands shaking slightly. "Edward may start," he said to the now unmasked man. When Edward turned to face him, Nicholas stumbled on the platform as his mouth dropped, sweat pearling at his temples. But he would never express his thoughts. He instead braved through it and forced a smile on his features as well.

Edward turned to Isabella with unwavering resolve. "I, William Philip Valois Fell, take you, Isabella Swan, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

"William Fell?" Nicholas whispered as all color drained from his face. He had dropped the Bible. " _Fell_?" he repeated.

Isabella grew confused as well. Edward felt the urge to explain himself before them. "Edward Cullen may exist to us, to the public, Isabella. But in the eyes of God and of the law, it is a name I made up—never sanctioned by the Church. I was never baptized as Edward Cullen. And I want you to have my real name, my true name. We have taken a huge step already," he said looking at Nicholas. "Doing it right the whole way seemed wanting."

She nodded, a faint smile on her lips. It did not matter what name he used. It was still the same person. Whether she was Lady Cullen or Lady Fell, she did not care—only their union in marriage mattered to her.

They looked to Nicholas to continue. It took him a while to regain his composure, but he got over the initial shock. "Lady Swan may continue," he whispered.

"I, Isabella Swan, take you, William Philip Valois Fell, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part," she said, the words blooming within her with anticipation.

Carlisle stepped forth. There were no rings, there had been no time for that. Instead, as a symbol for their unity, strings of white silk would be tied around their fingers.

"Then, we shall proceed as if these were indeed rings until you can procure real ones," Nicholas explained. "May the Lord bless these rings," he started as Edward tied the string around Isabella's left ring finger. "Which you will give to each other as the sign of your love and fidelity." Isabella tied the other piece around Edward's finger.

As they finished, they turned to Nicholas. "Amen," they said. With that unified word, the woods turned completely silent. The sun had spilled over the horizon at just the right moment. The beams broke through the roof of the forest and pushed past the mysterious sapphire glow, night saying its final goodbyes. In the precise timing, golden beams shone down on the couple, basking them in an unearthly glow, illuminating them with the yellow warmth of the sun. Isabella smiled, her hand still in Edward's, the silk string reminding her of what had just occurred. Her chocolate eyes drew him in just as much as his forest greens did with her. Everything around them was forgotten, for now, man and wife were absorbed by one another.

Carlisle broke through their mesmerized state by handing Edward his mask. "You still have to return to camp," he whispered, afraid that speaking in a higher voice would unsettle Raven's Grove. The couple stared at the empty eyeholes of the mask and then at each other. Nicholas looked at Edward the whole time, his mouth half-open as if he wanted to say something.

Edward took the mask and pulled it on, William Fell once more disappearing into the skin of Edward Cullen. He offered his arm to Isabella. "Shall we, Lady Fell?" he asked her in a light tone with a smirk on his features. Isabella grew warm and tender at the sight of him.

"Indeed, Sir Cullen, we shall," she answered and took his arm. He led them to the horses and they mounted, riding back together.

"He wouldn't by chance be related to _Philip_ _Fell_ , would he?" Nicholas stammered as he picked up the book of hours.

Carlisle turned to face him. "Best not ponder too much on what you have seen or heard here this morning, Friar," he warned. Nicholas understood the secrecy of the mask as well as anyone then. Edward Cullen did not sport a ravaged face, twisted by some misfortune. He bore the face of a ghost, of someone long dead. No wonder Alan Moore had thought he'd seen a specter. No wonder he had questioned his own sanity. Nicholas could not even begin to understand how Cullen could have kept such a secret for so long. But he understood that if Victoria ever found out, he would not be alive for long.

The sun was still low and rising in the sky as they returned. Some had started waking, but near Isabella's tent, it was as silent as a graveyard. And it had been emptied for their own purpose. As he led her into the tent her heart sped up as she realized what came next. Of course, they had been close to this situation several times before, but they had never gotten together with the thought that they would end up united as one. Now, however, that was the sole purpose of Edward's presence and it made the young woman nervous.

He tied the tent shut and turned to her as she shied away from him. Edward stood still, looking at her for a long while. The young woman knew she was safe with him, she knew she could trust him. And when that realization showed in her eyes he approached. Edward's lips slowly found hers and he kissed her with a tenderness she had never known before. Isabella sighed into him, relaxing in his arms as he held her close, never wanting to let go. Tender kisses grew more fiery and he undid the burgundy belt of her gown, casting it aside. Isabella let him do as he pleased, shivering at every touch. She was lost in their closeness, in the strange sensations they provoked within her—deep within her. All turned into a haze as, in the blink of an eye, they stood mostly undressed. Skin touched skin everywhere now. But she needed more, just like Edward did. Edward felt the soft and fragrant skin run smoothly under his ungloved hand, delighting in the shivers it caused to rock through her.

Her hand came to caress his cheek as she took in every part of his face. Her thumb glided over his lips and with a husky growl, he claimed her mouth even more fiercely, more passionately than before, the heat in them both rising, growing, pulsating.

They broke their kissing, gasping for air, panting in the emptiness of the tent. Her cot stood off to the side, inviting. "Bella," he murmured into her hair, the hairnet long since removed, her chestnut locks cascading down her back. In an instant, she was pressed down into the mattress, him over her, like a shield against the world. And she was beneath him, so tender, so inviting. There was something deep and primal present there as well, a deep ticklish feeling she had perceived before. But never as strongly. In only her chemise, the cold of the morning got to her, but in the warmth of his embrace, she did not feel it as strongly.

Isabella blushed when her moan escaped her. But it only seemed to further entice Edward, drew him into her embrace, into her heat. She let her hands wander along his body, felt the pronounced muscles of his back keeping him up over her, felt a few silver scars, the warmth pulsating through his skin.

And then a fright rose at the back of her mind when, as he was on top of her, the memories of Braun's ship took over. It was no longer Edward, but that brute who had tried to rape her and she grew frightened of this new and unfamiliar situation. Isabella broke apart with a gasp, trembling and he frowned. But just as he was about to put an end to it all, she pushed through, reminding herself that it was Edward— _her_ Edward. Her hands slipped up his exposed chest, her lips parted as she awaited him with heavy-lidded eyes. He saw that she wanted him like never before.

Her heart was beating furiously as her legs parted, awaiting him. She throbbed, growing slick and she shivered at his touch. Edward kissed her again, whispering words of love, words of comfort against her throat. She might have been dreading such a union at one time in her life, feeling it unnatural. The only thing Isabella had known was that she might bleed.

But it felt natural now, the most normal thing in the world—something she had always known how to do.

"I trust you, Edward," she whispered breathily. A smile parted his lips, a lock of dark hair tumbled into his eyes, giving him a playful air. He looked roguishly handsome then and her heart soared. She pushed the hair back and, slowly and with great care, he entered her. Isabella gasped as he parted her, pushed past her. A sharp hiss made him stop.

Edward hesitated. It hurt her, she ached. She felt herself stretched by him, how he slowly filled her beyond her capabilities, but she did not mind.

"Don't stop," she sighed. He lowered his face to kiss her, letting her get adjusted to him before continuing, even slower, taking great care in not hurting her. Isabella relaxed beneath him and ignored the sharp and sudden pain as he pushed past what she imagined was her hymen. He entered her completely and she settled, their heartbeats steadying into one. Their bodies now one. When she had gotten used to him, he started moving, slowly thrusting into her. The young woman let him shower her with kisses, kissed him back. She did not know what was up and down anymore. She only knew his touch, how they merged together in the early hours of the morning. The rhythm grew faster and faster until he tensed in her arms, until he reached climax. She held him, ignoring the dull throbbing of their first lovemaking. He lay beside her and held her back.

Isabella imagined she would be different now—that she was finally, in every sense and purpose, a true woman. But all she felt was happiness and a sense of accomplishment. She felt lucky that he had respected her to such a degree that he had taken care to go slowly for her. The heat of their lovemaking lingered and she did not want for them to separate, for him to move away, not yet. She delighted in hearing his heart beat so closely, hearing his breath hitch in his throat, his sighs as he played with a dark lock of her hair.

They rested in each other's arms as the minutes ticked on and camp slowly came to life. Yet, their part was seemingly empty. Isabella suspected Alice, Carlisle, and Jacob had something to do with that. They had managed to allow them a few hours to enjoy each other's company.

Slowly, Edward's hand slid past her waist, lower. The heat she had sensed before returned, throbbing between her legs. Her eyes met his and she waited to see what he would do. A grin told her that she should be expecting something. His hand stopped at her thigh and the slightest touch of his skin on hers made her visibly shiver, the hairs on her skin standing up as his hands came where no one but he had ever touched her before. A pleasant feeling enveloped her as he pleasured her, a strange feeling she had never perceived before. He continued for some time, that pleasant throbbing in her heat never leaving. A frantic moan escaped her as the feeling increased and she pushed against him, wanting him to go harder and faster. Isabella was lost in her own self and had to grab at him as the ecstasy increased. She closed in on her climax until he managed to push her over the edge and everything exploded.

The young woman could not hold herself as the loud moan escaped, she could not stop her back from arching while Edward held her. It tore through her, shocking her like nothing before and Isabella welcomed the delicious chaos. A moment passed, and she calmed down, completely overtaken by this new sensation. A sensation she never thought possible. When he looked at her with intense eyes, she blushed.

"W-what was that?" she asked in wonderment. The scarlet hue to her cheeks spread down her throat and ears as her breath calmed in pace with her heartbeat. It seemed Edward was more experienced in this than he had let on.

Edward's smirk grew wider. "I had my fun, it was only fitting that you had yours," he murmured huskily, the vibration of his voice rocking through her body. She gazed at him—at her husband.

"I never knew…" she trailed off. "You have made me yours now," she sighed into his chest.

"You have made me _yours_ ," he retorted. Indeed, she had possessed him in every single way. His hand came to remove a lock that had found its way into her face. "You do not know it, but you hold power in your lips—each touch bewitching me to you further. You hold me to you, and I am yours," he said. She had never once heard such loving words from him before.

"And was it so, from the first day that you saw me?" she wondered as her finger traced his lower lip.

"When you stepped forth in that throne room, so decisive, prouder than anyone else, I was captivated but only by your beauty. But, as I got to know the woman within, I realized it," he said.

"Realized what?"

"That I love you, Bella." His green eyes remained steadfast on hers. He made himself vulnerable before her, confessing something he had tried to suppress, tried to ignore for so long. But now he welcomed it.

That moment turned into their paradise, for no other place nor moment on earth could compare just then. They relished in those few minutes.

"I love you too," she said after a while. For she had realized that long before he had.

* * *

When Edward Cullen walked into the council that late morning, something with him seemed different. No one could quite place their finger on it, except for Carlisle, who was present.

They all stood up as Rosalie entered, greeting her lords and officers. "Adelton Hall," she stated after a while, going straight to the point.

"Lord Quinn still remains within its walls with limited resources. I think we could take it, Your Royal Highness," Athar said. "There are volunteers joining our forces from Hayes. They join out of loyalty to the Swan name."

"Then we journey there soon?"

"Before the week is over. If we take the castle, I know more will side with us. We might well get the rest of the Lords form Soroise and even Coldwick. If that is the case, we will have united the whole south against Victoria. We will be backed by a real army," Fawkes added with eagerness.

"Then, Generals Fawkes, Cullen, prepare the men once more. We take them to Hayes and Adelton Hall, the old seat of my ancestors," the princess said. "Let us hope the siege will not last," she said.

"We will strive to avoid a siege, by all means, the soldiers guarding the castle are scarce and I and Carlisle know its structure well," Edward added, leaning back in the chair as he regarded the ensemble.

Once it was over, the realization of another possible battle hit them. But the air was not as heavy as before. And there were many that would join and wait just by the line of the forest until Adelton was taken.

Once more the soldiers of Raven's Grove prepared for an excursion, for whatever might await beyond that forest.

Carlisle and Jacob were going over strategical positions to place some of the scouts as they all journeyed south. They sat parted from the rest as the hectic pace of camp continued. It was only then that Jacob spotted Friar Nicholas coming their way.

"This could mean trouble," Jacob whispered in Carlisle's direction. The other watched the man of the cloth with grim countenance despite the sunny day.

The chubby man, with chins wobbling with each step, neared them meticulously. Some sweat had started pearling by his temples as he came to stand before them, making sure that they were not overheard.

"What brings you to us, Nicholas?" Carlisle asked cautiously.

"Since I have no one else but you two to speak with—or God—I decided on heading to those who answer a bit more directly."

"About Edward," Jacob confirmed.

"You were present at the wedding," Nicholas whispered as he leaned in. "You _knew_ already." When he noticed the silence in both men, how cautious they had turned toward him, Nicholas put some distance between them.

"I will not bother Cullen or his wif—Lady Isabella with my thoughts and doubts over this matter."

"You have seen a great secret, friar, we all have learned to accept it for what it is."

"Do not mistake me, I would never judge Edward for what he hides. But he worries me," Nicholas pondered. "Greatly. This game he is playing is more dangerous than any of you could ever imagine."

"It is not a game, friar," Jacob retorted as his brow furrowed.

"He never had much choice, you see. King Jasper managed to make him stay after the war with England, despite Edward insisting on leaving," Carlisle explained.

"He should not have come, if he is discovered now, his motives might well be questioned. Which is why I've sought you out."

"What do you mean?" both men asked.

Nicholas sat down next to them and looked around. He was tired—the night had been spent lying awake. He had not been plagued by what he saw, rather, weighed down by the realization this new information had given him. "That Edward Cullen— _William Fell_ —only returned to Angloa in disguise for want of the throne. Each action he has done will only be seen as another step he has taken for the crown."

"That is preposterous," Jacob snickered. "Who would ever believe that nonsense!"

Carlisle, however, understood Nicholas better. He too had seen the same picture in his mind. He knew what the friar was referring to. "To think that Edward returned as a soldier in disguise only to wait for the right moment and seize a throne he never wanted?" Jacob spat. "Never."

"So he does not want it, then?" Nicholas asked, not entirely surprised by that fact.

"Of course not, why on earth would he wear that ghastly mask?" Jacob answered.

"Then listen closely to me, Jacob and Carlisle, and make this known to him. Edward Cullen can never unmask and step forth as he truly is, he would only gather animosity and it would result in his demise."

"I do not think the lords would be that harsh with him," Carlisle frowned.

"Not the lords, no," Nicholas agreed. "But the _people, the common folk_ see things in another light. Right now, they idealize him. He is one of _them_. If it ever gets out that he was a prince in disguise this whole time, they will have felt tricked. A man who has achieved so much, with no apparent lineage, coming from nothing, induces hope in them."

"He will never unmask, Nicholas," Carlisle assured the friar. He shivered at the ominous tone. If Edward's secret was indeed spilled, Victoria might use it against them, might take the advantage and sink Rosalie. "And I think he realizes this himself."

"I joined Her Royal Highness because of what she stands for—against the tyranny of her sister. I admire Edward because of what he has done. And I, as many others, admire him because I thought him to be a commoner. He proved that anyone can achieve greatness. It doesn't matter if he was born to royals, what he managed to do with that mask on—with nothing to his name—is inspiring. And many think like I do. But if they were ever to know his true face, his true lineage, we would lose supporters, we would gain more enemies. He would no doubt be in danger, people who felt tricked would try to strike at him. Lady Isabella would be in danger."

"Maybe you should tell him this," Carlisle muttered. He did not wish to be the bearer of such bad news.

"Tell me in all honesty, would he listen if I spoke with him?"

Carlisle and Jacob exchanged glances. Jacob spoke up after a while. "I think he knows, Nicholas. He has always known. Maybe Isabella understands this to some degree as well. That is the reason she was so protective when she discovered who Alan Moore was and what he had seen."

"Alan would never tell a soul," Nicholas stated.

"But you have to agree that the man cannot control his impulses. The way he shies away from Edward whenever he sees him, how he cowers, it will end badly for all of us. One of these days he will slip up." Carlisle shook his head. "If he ever finds out that Edward is the only living legitimate son of Philip Fell and Leonor Valois, I should think that we might find ourselves in real trouble."

"That will never happen," Nicholas stated.

Raven's Grove sighed, as if it had heard the whole conversation. And someone else gaped at the words as well.

The figure crouching in the shadows almost fell back.

Alan Moore, who had tried to catch up with Nicholas in silence, wondering where the friar was headed, sat back down, his mouth agape. He was shivering, he was sweating profusely. He had suspected there was a relation, but never such a legitimate one.

They had not spotted him hiding behind a tree. None of the three men had ever noticed his presence, how he had hung on to every word they had spoken. Suddenly, it all made sense. So much made sense. The only question for him now was what he was going to do with such vital information.

* * *

 **A/N: Sometimes, when I read love scenes here or in books in regular, some are overly descriptive...like too much information at times. And some are very vague, which is fine. But I feel people rarely convey the reality of having sex, especially the first time. Most people don't have a rocking orgasm that leaves them paralyzed for days on end, not the first time. The first time is, as you most know, awkward in some situations, other times it can be frightening, other times it can be comforting. It all depends on the individual experience. And that is what I was asking myself-do I just go with the flow and write in the generic lovemaking with an earthshattering orgasm that rarely comes the first time, or do I look at it from a more realistic point of view? I feel like we've grown with Bella and Edward throughout these fics, and I think it would be unfair to write a super-lemon scene. Mind you that this is the first time I have written something like this. I didn't want it to be too graphic, I guess you can say I romanticised it a little. But this fic is, in some parts, a bit romanticised.**

 **Anyway, this was just my thoughts on that particular scene. There will be more to come, here and there, don't worry. I hope you enjoyed it, let me know your thoughts, give me your feedback! I always appreciate it!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	10. Chapter 10

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 10_

 _July 16_ _th_ _, 1520 – Northern Hayes_

A mighty army they looked as roughened soldiers spilled out amongst the tree line of the woods. Rosalie had set her eye on Adelton Hall.

The villagers in Hayes locked doors and windows in silent anticipation. They knew it was coming, but they also knew that in a siege, anything could happen. Despite rooting for Rosalie and her followers, the townspeople could not trust the foot soldiers. Men in war did all kinds of things—thought themselves entitled to it all.

Lord Geoffrey Quinn saw them arrive, standing solemnly as the army amassed at the gates of Adelton. It looked like a scene out of the apocalypse, the day of reckoning knocking at his gates. His agitated thoughts received no rest as he saw the troops closing in. And he knew what rested on his shoulders, he knew what it would bode if Adelton fell. Cadherra would be claimed by Rosalie and he would be made prisoner. But the wrath of Victoria instilled a more gruesome fear than what now faced him.

Indeed, it did not bode well. Ominous winds had picked up speed; as if nature herself knew another battle was to take place. Lord Quinn understood that they would not last a siege long. He chose meeting the army on the battlefield rather than have the inhabitants of the castle starve.

Sounds of running footsteps, of panicking footmen and maids, was all that echoed throughout the ancient castle. It was the sound of impending doom as they heard the march outside. The rebels neared with weapons in hand, with a taste for blood. Or, at least, that was what his own soldiers kept whispering.

They stood few: only three hundred in total. Strategy would have to be their friend. Strategy and luck. The young duke, the head of his family, looked at the grim reality.

"My lord," came the commander of his personal army. The only army Victoria had allowed him. "We are ready." Quinn turned around without a word, his face a stern mask. He had chosen the wrong side and he knew it. He should have fled Wessport when he had the chance. But the exceedingly proud lord would never admit it out loud. And he would not bow to someone else when he had already sworn allegiance. He had been there at Victoria's coronation. There was no one more right for the throne than she—the oldest living descendant of Philip Fell. It did not matter that she was a woman. No one else had more claim to the throne than she—despite the atrocities she had committed.

He straightened the breastplate of his armor, walking to the courtyard without a word. The soldiers knew they would lose the battle. But they had great respect for Quinn. He stood by the gates for a long time, perhaps reconsidering his choice.

The army had now passed Hayes and closed in on the castle, the open meadow was the only thing separating them. Quinn was set on taking Rosalie's reputation with him to the grave on this solemn day.

"I refuse to stay locked in here like a coward," he turned to his men and said. Many were pale, many clutched their weapons—the only comfort they allowed themselves. "I will not be besieged, and I will send the pretender a message—that we, the Quinns, do not stand down without a fight. We will be remembered, we will be honored, we will be those who showed true spirit on a day such as this. For as our blood paints the meadows of this valley, as our screams of pain and agony cloud the edge of Durun and Raven's Grove, they will know we fought bravely. We will take down twice as many as they." His nostrils flared as he worked up his own taste for blood, for fighting. "We will die and drag them down with us. Our death will not be a victory for the princess, only a further blow!" he exclaimed.

The men cheered, edged on, eager to prove their worth. Geoffrey's words were not meant to inspire, were not meant to encourage them. They were brutally honest, something many appreciated. Quinn did not fight for Victoria, but he fought for her crown. He fought for his pride. And for his house.

As Rosalie's troops neared, they were indeed surprised as the gates shrieked and opened. The small army welled out, ready to take down all, to leave a scar in Rosalie's army.

The arches lined up along the walls and readied their arrows. There was not enough gunpowder to arm the men with. The civilians had stayed behind at Hayes where everything could be seen all too clearly.

Edward urged his horse to hurry to Fawkes and Saxton who were in a rapid conversation with the princess. "They never planned for a siege, he is meeting us on the field," the masked man growled.

"This bodes badly. He knows we overwhelm him in numbers," Saxton mumbled in response as a frown graced his handsome features.

"Lord Quinn is the proudest man I know. It is a foolish decision in a show of more foolishness," Fawkes quipped as his hands squeezed the reigns. "He knows most of his men—him included—will die."

Edward's head snapped back to the men welling out of Adelton. Grim were their faces, bloodlust shining in their eyes. They would fight to the death, they would fight for more than money could buy. Pride was what edged them on. The same foolish pride that ruled Geoffrey Quinn.

His steed grew nervous under him, reading the tension in its rider. Edward knew that they had to tread carefully, they could not just charge. If they did, it would be considered slaughter and they might end up losing followers. Their dream of joining the south to Rosalie would slip away depending on how things played out on that battlefield.

"We have to take Geoffrey alive, we cannot kill him—make a martyr out of him. If we can get to him, we can end this battle quicker," he said. "We need to make it clear that he is not to be killed under any circumstance. It is what he wants most likely."

"It will be hard," Fawkes murmured. Carlisle and Jacob stood off to the side with one of the better-trained troops.

"Send only me and Saxton with our men," Edward argued.

"That is not even a fourth of our forces! Why would we make this harder for ourselves? We could all strike now and take that silly little army down. It will be child's play!" Fawkes shouted, attracting the attention of the foot soldiers.

"We will defeat Quinn and our victory shall be seen as just."

"Out of the question," Lord Tyris chipped in as he joined them with some lords from Soroise. "We use our whole army or nothing." Lord Wilson nodded eagerly but kept his mouth shut in the presence of Edward's glare and Rosalie's raised eyebrow.

"You ignore the consequences of that," Edward tried as his voice grew dangerously low. He leaned forward, his frame growing bigger, his aura more threatening. The slits in the mask seemed to house nothing beneath it, just a void of darkness. As if it were a phantom under that mask.

"I am ignoring nothing. What I understand is that we need to win this battle, or we lose a greatly needed support."

"But what General Cullen is referring to is that if we squish Lord Quinn on this day, we will be seen just as merciless as Victoria and none will join this war. Three thousand against three hundred? They will think both sides equally as demented. Quinn knows this. He is willing to sacrifice himself so that, even if we win, we end up being the losers." When Saxton was finished he caught up with his train of thought. "The bloody genius," he whispered to himself. "A fool but a genius."

"You make it out to sound like Quinn knows what he is doing. The man lacks that kind of wit. He has made a foolish decision and we can profit from it," Lord Wilson argued, more forcefully. "We need to take this chance, now!" he exclaimed. The forces of Quinn were amassed, getting ready to attack them. They had yet to send their troops into formation.

Rosalie had kept quiet until that point, never the one to know much about warfare. She was inclined to listen to Fawkes because she found a safety in his experience—more safety in him than in Edward. She felt it her duty to speak up and settle the squabble amongst her generals and lords. "What is our final plan of action? What have we finally decided on?"

"We attack them with our full force, Your Royal Highness. Look at them," Fawkes pointed out. "They look half mad. They have the high ground and shooters on the ready along the high walls of the castle. The fact that Lord Quinn has decided to leave the security of his gates gives us a better chance and saves us a whole lot of time. The final decision is yours to make, but I think we should strike head-on and with our full force," Fawkes finished. Many agreed except Edward and Saxton. For they saw the bigger picture.

Rosalie turned to the masked man. "I follow the advice of my Field Marshal, Cullen. And of the majority. General Fawkes has been on the battlefield for a long time. I trust that he knows best," she offered after a slight pause of thought.

"Only because the majority dictates, does not mean they are right," he growled.

"Maybe." They all could not help to shiver as a determinedness settled within the depths of her eyes. An eerie similarity to Philip emerged. Those who had once known the late king could clearly see the blood Rosalie shared with her father. "We attack. I worry about the consequences later."

"Your Royal High—," he began. Still trying to argue against the hefty idea.

"That is _an order,_ Cullen." His lips settled in a thin line.

"As you command," he turned from her. "Saxton, Carlisle, Jacob, you come with me and take the left flank. I leave the middle flank to you, General Fawkes," he said to the older general.

Fawkes' eyes lit up with vigor, with anticipation. His skin crawled in excitement, already smelling victory. "Form the lines!" he shouted at the troops. "Get to safety, Your Royal Highness," he ordered Rosalie. "Enjoy the show," he blinked at her.

Rosalie did not let any emotion show on her face. She rode back in a fast-paced gallop, ready to rejoin the civilians standing just by the outskirts of Hayes. Many of the villagers had left their houses, looking at the battlefield.

The meadow stretched under clear skies. Dirt and sunshine invaded their nostrils like a tangy perfume. Banners flew in lazy winds, adrenaline and testosterone running high. The lines were swiftly formed, Rosalie's soldiers ready to strike.

Lord Quinn looked at the opposing side. He would not back down now. His honor would not let him. He had the high ground—he would make it work.

A stillness settled. Only flapping fabric and horses uncomfortable in the tension. And blood pulsating. And men shivering.

Fawkes bared his teeth in further anticipation. He craved the thrill before a battle.

It was a waiting game, they wanted to see who would attack first.

Quinn rose a hand and the cannons were fired. The iron balls flew whistling through the sky, missing their target on the first round. The soldiers fought hard to stay in place, especially those at the front line. "Keep the line!" Edward shouted. Saxton joined him.

"This will be a massacre," Emmett mumbled under his breath.

"Take Quinn alive if you can," Edward said to the lord. "Do not let him die on this field."

"You think that would change anything?" Emmett asked in disbelief as he shifted in the saddle.

"It might save us some face." Edward did not voice a further opinion. Rosalie was too misguided, Fawkes too eager to battle. The old general did not see the disadvantage, the ramifications their victory would have. They would only find defeat in victory.

The second shower of cannonballs flew through the sky and hit some men. Screams echoed through the meadow as the first men lost their lives.

Isabella had chosen not to watch the fight. She sat with Sofia, her mother and Alice by the town square, trying to block out the screams, the cannon fire and the smell of gunpowder. They had left camp early, Rosalie deciding it was time to march on Adelton and claim it once more.

It was soon that Friar Nicholas and Alan came up to them. Alan looked at them strangely, but his thin lips were sealed shut. She figured it was the battle taking place a few paces from them.

Alan had not told a soul what he had heard just a few days prior. He had not yet processed that information. And as combat dawned on Rosalie's army, he found there was no time to process such words. Not yet.

"May we join you?" Nicholas asked.

"Please," Isabella said before Sofia could interrupt.

They sat in silence, eyes wide and hearts racing. Sofia was grounding herbs into a powder trying to keep busy. Alice was mending a piece of cloth. Isabella found the normalcy bizarre when the thought that only a few paces away, a battle was taking place. She found it even stranger to be so close.

Geoffrey Quinn growled as Rosalie's forces would not stand down. They would not attack either. He had only a limited source of gunpowder and when that went out, they would charge. Better it be him first.

"Men, prepare for combat!" he shouted. It was time.

The soldiers said one last prayer and mentally prepared for their demise.

The other side saw the change in stance. They were ready to respond. Fawkes rode by the front line, making sure all was ready. The spears were sufficiently sharpened, the men wore their gambesons, ready to battle. The old general grinned as he rose his sword dramatically in the air. "For Rosalie!" he shouted.

At the other end of the line, Edward's men—those who had fought with him with the English shouted something else.

"Audeamus!" _Let us dare!_ It was _their_ battle cry, their chant whenever they followed their general into a fight. And it rang in Edward's ears like a nostalgic cry from the past.

At the same time, Lord Quinn ordered his men to charge. "For the crown!" he screamed as they pressed forward.

Getting to the clash of both lines made time slow down. Horse hooves rang through the valley, vibrated through Cadherra who had not seen such a scene since the time of the three kings. The men shouted ferociously as they charged with all their might. When the clash came, it exploded as one side met the other. They all fought in blind rage, time catching up as blood splattered in all directions, as steel met steel and flesh. Edward got off his horse killing to the left and the right. Saxton, Carlisle, and Jacob were not far from his side. Their flank held its formation as they braved on, Quinn's side already taking a hard blow. He ignored as a sword suddenly caught him faintly in the upper arm, drawing blood. Edward braved on with a mission. He would not let Quinn die on that battlefield.

It was surreal for him to see the masked man appear from the thick smog of fired muskets. He looked like the devil, all black—even his armor the shade of night. There was something unsettling, almost evil to him about Edward Cullen. Quinn fought to the left and to the right, ignoring the cuts, the flashes of pain. He would never surrender. He had seemingly gone completely berserk, hitting in all directions.

Tyris of Soroise had caught sight of the commander as well. If he got to Quinn before the masked man, he would kill him without a doubt. Edward pushed forth, Saxton by his side, defending his back. They worked together as they tried to save Quinn's life and, thus, Rosalie's name.

He got to the fury and they met in heated combat. Edward deflected harsh blow after blow, impressed at Quinn's strength—no doubt the adrenaline and anger played a big part in it. He fought with the strengthened sword in one hand and a knife in the other, blocking the broadsword as it came crashing down, a breath from squishing his skull. Edward's muscles cramped as Quinn put his whole weight in the sword.

"Surrender to me Cullen and I will let you walk," Quinn growled through the effort.

"I am not here to kill you, Lord Quinn," he snapped back. The words only made Geoffrey more furious.

"I will never stand down! Death first!"

The conversation had been enough time for Edward to find his footing. He shifted the weight to his left leg and brought the other one behind Quinn's legs, bringing him down to his back and directing his sword to his throat. The battle continued around them, but both men were caught up in their own moment.

"Kill me now, Cullen," Quinn smiled arrogantly. "I would consider it a great honor to have you end my life. Come, I am ready to meet my maker!" he blurted out as he started feeling the intense fatigue. Yes, Quinn was more than ready to die, to get away from it all. He had fought a good and honorable fight.

When Edward Cullen removed sword and knife from him, Geoffrey did not understand. "You will not die today, Lord Quinn," he shouted through the chaos. He brought the handle down on the exposed head and knocked the leader out. Edward called Jacob over and commanded him to transport Quinn back to Hayes.

He had succeeded. Edward looked around him and saw death and destruction, a tight pain gripping his heart as the grim reality of war and death settled in. He saw Angloan blood being spilled, heard the cries of agony and froze for a faint moment. Men cried out for their mothers, for their lovers as they realized it was their end. He found no honor in it. There was no honor in dying in such a way, only a waste of life.

It seemed Fawkes did not see it that way, for the general was having the time of his life until the swing of a sword brought him down hard from his saddle.

Fawkes gasped in pain while air left his lungs. The metal of the sword found an opening in his plated armor and dug into his flesh. Fawkes saw the lone soldier; the fellow eager to finish what he started. The pressing heat of the sun greeted him as he tumbled to his back and started realizing that his time might come. Fawkes would, however, not die on his back. He got up with a loud grunt of pain and swiftly killed the soldier who had stabbed him. But, soon, another managed to cut his calves and the proud general fell to his knees. There was only echo, only pain as he stared at the executioner nearing him with blood dripping from his weapon.

Fawkes eyed him defiantly, a grim smirk settling on his lips as he accepted his fate. But his death never came. Edward Cullen and Emmett Saxton had reached him before it was too late. Fawkes' laugh rumbled through the ranks as he realized he had been saved, seconds away from certain doom.

Edward got on Fawkes' horse. "Stay down!" he shouted in full force to both sides. More than two-thirds of Quinn's men had fallen, painting the meadow red. "Lord Quinn has been captured, it is over. No more blood needs to be spilled!" he continued. "Throw your weapons and I will spare your lives!"

The enemy stared at each other. They had gone into this thinking they would lose their lives. They had been luckier than their companions who lay dead under the summer sun. It took them little time to cast down their swords. They would surrender, but only because they respected Cullen, only because they knew who he was and that his word was the absolute truth. If he promised to spare their lives, they believed it.

In the course of a lazy afternoon, the second battle of the war had taken place and, once again, Rosalie Fell was the victor. But Edward did now wonder what consequences it would bring with it.

Like wine, the blood flowed in the meadow, glinting under the sun, shining like a million rubies had been scattered. Once the shouts and screams of battle were over did the spectators of Hayes step forth to witness the outcome.

Isabella had seen death and destruction before. But never like this. To think that each splayed body on that field was a lost life soured her stomach. For Alice, who stepped forth with her, she could not take it and the contents of her breakfast spilled out on the wet soil, mixing with the foulness before them. Renée made the sign of the cross for the lives lost, watching in horror. Many did the same as her, they understood it was not a victory, how could it be?

Edward caught the horrified expressions of the people emerging from Hayes. Rosalie was one of them. Her face was pale and clammy, her hand clutching the cross. "Not like this," she had whispered at one moment. "Not like this." Friar Nicholas had, with the help of a pale Alan Moore, started scouring the field for survivors.

They were all lost for a moment. Then Edward decided to take charge as the rest had frozen. He ordered Fawkes and other wounded to be taken to a makeshift infirmary in Hayes. Lord Saxton and Jacob got the painful task of managing the villagers and civilians by Hayes while he dealt with Rosalie. They had to be composed before entering Adelton Hall.

Jacob had gotten to Isabella, a green hue to her skin gave away her real state of mind. But her features showed nothing. When he asked for her help in dealing with the others, she took responsibility as well.

"Your Royal Highness," Edward murmured as he caught up to Rosalie, her eyes still fixed on the death before her.

Fearful eyes found him, a lost girl finally breaking through the hardened woman she tried to be. "What have we done, Cullen? What sin is this that I have ordered?"

He had no words of comfort for her, no words to try to salvage her state of mind. There were none. Rosalie had ordered the charge, despite his objections. "This is the reality of war, Your Royal Highness." It was the only solace he could offer her.

"All these souls are gone, because of me."

"You did not kill them, not directly," came the dark voice. For the first time, Rosalie noticed his appearance. Blood soaked his front and had splattered across his mask. It was not his blood. A small cut slashed his upper arm, but it was nothing substantial. Before she could say anything else or attract more attention, the masked man led her away from it all, away from the ghastly sight. The Godfearing woman closed her eyes and let him whisk her away, behind a house that shielded her eyes.

She was finally away from it and found the stillness of that backyard even more unnerving. She looked at him as if asking him why he had brought her there.

"You are allowed to be upset by what you saw. It is normal. But I think it best if it is in private. Let no man see your weakness, Your Royal Highness," he offered.

Rosalie had started shaking. "I am like Victoria." Her face twisted in pain.

"You are nothing like her," he growled with ferocity.

"Then tell me, Cullen, what differs me from her? Would she not have done the exact same thing as I did on this day? What differs us in this action?" she demanded him in anger, lashing out at him.

"You feel remorse and admit to your fault. Victoria blames her actions on everyone else," he answered calmly. It caught Rosalie off guard. "You have a conscience, Your Royal Highness. Your sister seems to have lost hers, or it is buried deep within her."

She clasped both her hands around the wooden cross of her rosary, thinking hard for a moment. "What happens now? Word will spread of what transpired here this day. I will not be a prideful fool. You were right, Cullen, we should not have attacked in such a full force. Now Lord Quinn and his men will be remembered as defiant heroes in their deaths."

"Lord Quinn was not killed in battle. He is alive by my capture. We try to go forth, all is not yet lost, we can still turn this around," he reassured her.

But Rosalie did not feel so reassured after the massacre she had just witnessed.

 _July 19th – Adelton Hall_

Word did indeed spread like wildfire. Before the week was out, all in the realm had heard of the massacre at Adelton. All had heard of Lord Quinn's bravery in battle. For Victoria, Quinn's defeat might have been a hard blow at first, until she realized it was working out in her favor. Some lords that had been strongly in favor of Rosalie were now, once again, neutral in the conflict. It added to her confidence that she would win this war. And she would not take her sister's forces for granted anymore.

Meanwhile, Adelton Hall had been taken up as Rosalie's residence while she regrouped her forces. Fawkes had realized his thirst for battle had clouded his judgment. On the third day of his recovery from his wounds, he had sought an audience with the princess. She had not wanted to see him after the massacre. But she did not blame him because he had, after all, acted on her order.

Rosalie had never seen Adelton before. She appreciated its magnificence. It did indeed inspire awe in those who entered the castle. She understood why her lineage had resided here for so long. The Throne Room in itself was a masterpiece of finely crafted art, high in roof and with the summer sun spilling in through the warm windows. The old throne, older than the creation of Angloa itself, was uncomfortable but spoke of the rich and proud history of her people.

Most people present that mid-afternoon were men of war, her council of war and some ladies in waiting—mostly wives to her advisors. Isabella, Cullen's fiancée in everyone else's eyes, was standing close to the princess. They had exchanged the simplicity of Raven's Grove for a castle fit for an aspiring queen to be.

Fawkes neared the princess, who now looked more like a queen perched on her throne. Despite being in that decadent room, she was the very picture of humility, never once looking prideful or condescending as Victoria might have done.

Fawkes had to use crutches as he walked up with her, a prominent limp slowing him down. The armor was replaced by a simple doublet in bright colors. He looked tired and older, but otherwise well-recovered thank to Sofia's amazing skills.

Mrs. Hammond was there, having survived through these past few months through wit and willpower. She eyed the limping man, trying hard to hide her mouth from dropping. She had heard much of Anthony Fawkes but never seen the man in person.

When Quinn's army had been defeated, Adelton welcomed the new conquerors with open arms, Mrs. Hammond running up to Isabella and showering her with hugs. Mrs. Hammond had secured Isabella her old chambers as well as Renée's. There was plenty of room for the newcomers to the castle, at least most of them. The foot soldiers took up residence in the barracks and The Palas. But it could not house them all, so some of them went to Hayes, the villagers too afraid to deny them housing.

Fawkes stopped just in front of the throne, struggling to bow, but did so as gracefully as he could with his wounds. The murmur died down as the sunrays pushed against the decorated walls, jumping off the shiny golden surface and rich details—outlining them further.

"Your Royal Highness," he said as he straightened.

"General Fawkes, we hope you are feeling better."

A boyish grin escaped him, the smile cutting through his handsome yet aged face. "Had I been twenty years younger, I would have been on my feet the very same day. Alas, age does not favor anyone, I fear," he answered. Fawkes paused briefly, continuing to speak before Rosalie could. "But that is not why I am here."

"Indeed? We had a reunion yesterday with the council where you were absent, my lord." Theodor Glovendale and Thomas Athar had put forth a plan to win back the lost support. It was an outcome many had disliked, trying to talk Lord Quinn into joining their side. He had been imprisoned in the dungeons of the castle, refusing to speak to anyone. They all did not know if they could succeed in such an endeavor. When Fawkes heard of it, he had been against it, saying Quinn did not deserve to join them for the traitor that he was.

"The battle for Adelton, for Cadherra," Fawkes started in a loud voice. It echoed throughout the room, bouncing off the walls, booming loudly in their ears. "It has made me realize something."

"Ten golden crowns says he is about to do something stupid," Carlisle leaned over and whispered in Edward's ear as they stood close to one of the windows of the room.

"I second that," Saxton grinned by their side, joining in on the bet.

Edward shook his head and sent a glance their way. When they thought he would reprimand them, he looked at them straight on. "I hope you are not attached to that money," he said back. The gesture was so unlike Edward that it baffled the two. Jacob had to hold a hand in front of his face as he failed to mask a grin.

"What has it made you realize, General?" Rosalie asked.

"It has, just like these wounds, made me see that I am old and have grown foolish. I know you keep insisting that it was you who gave the order, but many others and I pushed for you to do this. I think I might have been the loudest voice for this. I realize I am not fit to be in charge of your full army when I make simple mistakes like this one."

A painful silence settled as they started realizing what Fawkes was getting at. Athar shifted where he sat and exchanged a glance with Glovendale. Edward caught it and he realized immediately that they had something to do with this.

"But we won," Rosalie stated. "So why are you giving up your post?"

"Because the price we paid for this victory was too expensive," Fakes said tightlipped. It had never been a fair battle. And the dried blood had darkened the meadow. The view from the windows was not as beautiful as it once had—not with death hanging over them.

"Are you telling me that you willingly give up your post as Field Marshal, as the head general of my armies?" she asked astounded.

"No, Your Royal Highness. I am asking you to order me to do it."

"Why on earth would I do that? You served my father and cousin well throughout the years. Why would I wish to remove you from such a post?"

"Because it would send the rest of Angloa a message that you distance yourself from those who advised you to attack Adelton Hall and Quinn's army three days ago," he offered. It seemed Fawkes had thought this out for a long time. No doubt the solitude in the recovery wing of the castle hospital had given him time to reflect.

"I will not make you the scapegoat of this, General. I refuse," she stated loudly. Her own voice now echoed through the room with the force of a storm.

"Your Royal Highness, give my post to someone who deserves it more, to the man who advocated for the right thing even when most were against him." Fawkes turned to Edward who had been leaning casually against the wall up until that moment. Edward was not liking where this was headed—into a territory that would mean even more responsibility for him, yet another thing that would tie him down to Angloa. "Give Edward Cullen my post," his voice boomed.

All their eyes turned to the masked man.

Another weight to add to his shoulders.

Strangest of all was that Rosalie was not opposed to the idea. In fact, she could see the switch working out very well.

The princess reflected on her answer for a moment, the room held its breath collectively while awaiting her answer. Athar watched Edward with intent, saw as he shifted uncomfortably as he awaited the final verdict.

"Very well, but only because I see reason in your proposal, General Fawkes. Therefore, I hereby strip you of your title as Field Marshal and pass it over to General Cullen."

'Another title', Edward thought. Mere words. A title he did not need.

"I would still have you as my advisor, Lord Fawkes," she added, dropping the title of _General_.

Fawkes bowed again, relief and pleasure gracing his features. His time had come and gone. His faults had finally caught up to him and he had realized it was time to let power go—something few did. Fawkes had stepped down with dignity, others had not been so lucky.

A hand found its way into his and Edward realized it was a small leather purse clinking with coins. Behind his back, Saxton and Carlisle had put their lost money together. Carlisle handed him the twenty golden coins, the small insignificant thing weighing heavy in his hands.

"I do not want it," Edward muttered as he pushed it back into Carlisle' hands and turned his back on him. This was one bet he wished he'd lost.

 **A/N: There it is! Another chapter for you. I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews I've been getting. I have the best readers ever! I appreciate that you are still reading this story. I myself have grown too attached to posting each week that it will be hard to see it go. But I am working on something that may come after this, so look out for it!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	11. Chapter 11

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 11_

 _July 21_ _st_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

Prayer helped him when the nightmares had become overwhelming. But, still, that nagging feeling of closure kept yelling at the back of his head. Alan Moore did indeed need it: closure. He had narrowly escaped death thanks to the very same people that had directed him to that fate. He had sworn secrecy—he had sworn to keep quiet.

But, the new information he had discovered had changed things. His view on Edward Cullen had changed.

He had realized something.

The lonesome man trekked the desolate hallways like a ghost, so thin, so fatigued. But Alan Moore walked with purpose. There was only one way to go, only one person to seek; to end his nightmares, to give him peace of mind.

Each step felt lighter than the last. He wondered what would occur after his actions. There would be consequences, Alan knew that. He did not care. He could not live a life so haunted, always wondering. Yet, he could not ignore his heartbeat racing, forever in a constant crescendo.

He waited hidden for him after the council meeting had ended. And, indeed, the Lion of the North, the new Field Marshal, stepped out.

More responsibility rested on Edward's shoulders now than ever before. A princess that trusted in him more than before. Edward Cullen did not let the sudden changes show. Well, the mask would not show them at least.

He was one of the first to exit. Alan was reminded of his own insignificance in the presence of so many important officers and lords… and royalty. Rosalie and Edward stepped out together with Lord Athar and Lord Saxton. Theodor Glovendale walked alongside Fawkes. They all spoke in hushed voices. A somber air still hung heavy after the battle. It was being referred to as the **'** Massacre of Cadherra'. It had tainted Rosalie's reputation, but Fawkes had taken the hardest blow. And Victoria Fell had ridden this new wave the best she could. She had managed to stir discomfort among those lords from Soroise who had joined. They were five. Lord Tyris, their leader, Lord Wilson, Talbot, Ryth, and Fenning.

Lord Tyris was still loyal. But Lord Wilson had made his excuses, packed his trunks and left for his fortified walls. They knew it was not likely he would return. At least he had left his small army there, but he would no longer be associated with another such disaster. The other three kept more to themselves, always speaking in a hushed voice, always looking suspicious.

Alan watched the high and mighty walk in the distance, following them at length, waiting for his chance to catch Cullen alone. He needed to confront him, ask his true agenda. It would give him peace of mind.

The masked man appeared so different to him now that he knew who hid beneath that leather mask. He still inspired fear in him, of course. That would never go away. But now that Alan knew he was of royal blood, he could not help but see him differently.

Alan had, despite himself, respected Edward. He had thought him a man of the people, rising through hard work. And now it appeared that he was not just a simple commoner. He could not help but question Edward's motives. And if no one else would do it, then he would. Alan would take that step that not even the masked man's closest friends dared take.

They walked through the great hall, out to the courtyard. Edward left the other lords and headed for the stables where he wanted to see to his horse. Cid, his gray stallion, had been taken well care of in his absence. Edward realized he had been treated well by Quinn. It was something he was grateful over. Cid was, after all, one of his oldest friends.

Alan rushed after him, knowing the stables would be empty this time of day. The stable boys all had the habit of eating at the same time. Nicholas cooking had greatly improved now that he had a real kitchen. And the cook and he made a lovely team, feeding not only the ones stationed at the Palas but the soldiers in Hayes and the lords as well.

In the meantime, Rosalie who had been taking in the fresh air after sitting locked up in the assembly room of Adelton realized she needed to speak to Cullen once more. She bid her goodbyes to her advisors and turned around, not needing them to accompany her. This was not Wessport and Victoria was not dictating her life anymore. Rosalie did not need a constant guard at her back all the time.

The princess had seen the general heading for the stables and went in that direction, taking care in keeping the hem of her skirts from dirtying. The dark maroon color of her dress showed off flecks of dust rather easily, and she had no mind to change so early in the day.

As she neared the stables, she frowned when she saw a man run through the south door. Rosalie recognized him. Athar had informed her of him, of Alan Moore, the traitor who had tried to sabotage the northern campaign against the English last year. But he had also been the man who had spied on Edward, sent by Victoria. She had been retold what had transpired as she had gone away, how a trial had been set up by Fawkes and how Isabella Swan had played a big part in it. It had almost cost Alan Moore his life—and some had thought it him deserving of that at the time. But Lady Swan herself came up to his defense, protecting his integrity explaining why she had not spoken up sooner; afraid Alan might reveal his knowledge of Edward—of his face. But Swan's conscience had won, and she had, in some sense, saved the traitor's life.

That man knew Edward Cullen's real face. That was all Rosalie really remembered of him. The scrawny and thin man did not give off much of another impression. He knew a crucial fact that many of them were interested in. However, it was something the majority would never ask about out of respect.

It was also clear that Edward Cullen wanted nothing to do with him. And that it would end badly for Alan were he to seek him out. So why was he chasing him to the stables now?

Rosalie knew she shouldn't, but she followed the strange little man, afraid he was searching for Edward with ill intent. After all, the masked man had thrown him into a cold and dark dungeon for months—letting him rot there.

Alan took a big gulp, unaware of the woman following him in steady steps. He was too focused on the masked man who now brushed his stallion. Edward had asked to be left alone with Cid, to enjoy some time with him. His horse relaxed under his touch, relishing once more in the familiar presence of his owner.

The masked man sensed someone walking up to him, but he did not see that it was Alan until it was too late.

Edward was surprised that Moore had actually come to him after the trial. He kept brushing his horse in relaxed indifference. But deep down he feared Moore was there for something he could not give.

"I thought you had had enough of me for a lifetime," Edward's low voice fleeted through the air. It was as commanding as ever, its power halting Alan in his step. It was a sort of warning, telling him he could still turn around.

But Alan made his decision when he walked up to Edward, stopping just a few paces from him. He did not want to stand too close. Edward continued to brush his horse, massaging the flank of Cid with hay, getting dried dust out of his fur, making it shiny.

"There are things a man needs to understand, to have peace of mind."

"There is nothing for you to understand. You were told to forget what you saw, you know you are treading on dangerous ground—"

"Then take my life, for it is not worth much in its current state. I _need_ to make things clear. I need to say this," Alan said with such conviction, with such unprecedented force that Edward stopped brushing Cid and turned to face him. The power in his stare made Alan almost run away, but why be a coward now?

"You saw nothing, Alan," Edward said with impatience lurking underneath the surface. He looked around, making sure they were not being overheard. The stables appeared quite empty, only the sound of the horses could be heard.

"I overheard Friar Nicholas confront your friends—for they know your secret, the _true_ secret. They know _who_ you are, _what_ you are. As do I now." Those words could bring death to him, Alan knew that. He trembled. "They might keep quiet, but I shall not. I come to advocate for truth, to do something right for once."

"And what would that be?"

"To question you—your motives for being here. What are your reasons for being so close to the princess? Are you taking this as an opportunity?"

"Going straight to the point, are we, Moore?" The voice sounded almost taunting.

"Don't mock me. You must understand why I ask this."

"You know only a fraction of the truth. Nothing else, Moore. And I will make no explanations to you, a true traitor." The response made Alan's blood boil.

"I was a traitor, yes, but my actions were nothing compared to what yours might be. One could suspect you of treason against the woman you claim to support. One might think you are only using her to gain forces, to make your own way to power. You have already managed to become the Head General, the Field Marshal. What next?"

Edward stepped forward, the accusations so severe and alarming that he grabbed Alan's arm hard and roughly. Alan was surprised by the speed the masked man had managed to get to him. But he did not stand down, he realized he had touched a nerve. Cid stepped nervously behind his master, sensing the rising tension in the air.

"Be _very_ careful of what you are about to imply."

"How can I not? Look at it from my perspective, it is very suspicious, General. The people look up to you, they follow _you_ , they respect _you_. You know that, right?"

"They follow Princess Rosalie, do not try to play this off as if I am trying to take her place," he growled.

"Do you know what Nicholas said when he confronted Sir Carlisle and Jacob? He said that if the people ever found out about you, they would take you down themselves. We looked up to you, we thought you were one of us! How wrong we were. You are like them, like all of them!" Moore snapped, shaking the harsh grip off his arm.

He never expected the composed surface. How calm and collected Edward seemed. The masked man took a step back. His stallion had grown more agitated at the rising tension. The animal fussed where he stood, wanting to go to his master's side.

"I will not threaten you with death, torture or trials. You already know I will not go to such lengths anymore. But think long and hard of the consequences were you to reveal your knowledge to other people. Many who have seen my face have died because of it, do not become yet another one, Moore. It is a friendly warning, not a threat."

Another man might have tried to take Alan's life right then and there. But Edward chose another path. He played another game. He knew Alan had a heavy conscience. He knew what he would do—and it would not be to reveal his secret. Alan had confronted him out of agony, out of a need to know. He might not have gotten a straight answer, but he knew it was as good an answer he would get.

Edward left him standing alone, next to the nervous horse, walking out of the stables, never letting anything show on him—not even the tension.

Alan looked at the dirty ground for a long time. He supposed, after a while, that he should get someone to take care of the stallion. He did not really know what to think anymore. Alan knew he could not stay in Cadherra forever, despite what he had promised at the trial. The traitor hoped to leave Adelton and travel to a safe spot one day. He would go away from it all—when the time was right he would flee. He had had enough of war and intrigue.

Rosalie stood frozen on her spot, still hidden. The princess felt cold in the summer heat, unsure of what she had just overheard. The hairs on her arms stood on point and she felt sick to her stomach. Afraid and lost, now more than ever before. She thought herself away from all the intrigue, from the treason. What she had gathered from the quick banter was that Cullen might be conspiring behind her back. Was he not really disfigured as he said? Was he yet another pawn of another big player, in it to win a larger piece of land, more titles, and money? She shrank to the floor, her arms coming around her, holding herself. Alone. She was now truly and utterly alone. The man she trusted in more than anyone else had become tainted now as well.

And, yet, she did not cry. A strange hollowness invaded her. Maybe it was that very strength and force she had witnessed in Victoria when they were younger. Maybe it took root in her now as well. Rosalie knew she had to do something, she could not let this slide, let this fester and become a real problem. She would have to assess the situation. And, if it came to it, deal with Edward Cullen accordingly.

 _July 22_ _nd_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

Geoffrey Quinn had been taken to the Throne Room. Only the assembly of the princess was present. He, who had once lived in that castle, found the situation ironic to the fullest. He had been freed from his handcuffs, his captors knowing very well that he would never escape—he could not escape.

But his pride was still intact. Battered and beaten on the field he knew he'd fought bravely. He knew that news of his bravery had already spread and that his defeat had rather been his victory. Quinn had secured his name to go down in history. Therefore, his head was raised high, his nose elevated toward the ceiling. He would take their insults and torture.

Rosalie sat on the throne, her features neutral, not showing what went on beyond them. She had not revealed her findings of Edward to anyone.

Somber was the air in that room. Somber and heavy. They all waited to see what would happen to Quinn, many unsure if they wanted him executed. Fawkes was there, the one who had led the charge. He kept his mouth shut as tightly as he could. In his place stood Edward, his countenance as unreadable as always.

"You have kept Adelton in pristine condition, my lord," Rosalie smiled toward the other. She was uncomfortable sitting in that throne—the throne her grandfather had once occupied. It was rough and old, digging into her thighs through the thin fabric of her dress.

"I wish to know what will happen to me and my soldiers. The faster I get the news, the better," was all Quinn said. Knowing when his death occurred felt better somehow.

Edward Cullen stepped forth. For, despite knowing what she knew about him, she had ordered him to take charge in the proceedings. They would try to win Quinn over to their side. He had not broken down in the dungeons. Time was of the essence. He would be given a choice.

Alas, most of them already knew what his answer would be.

"Some here have been of a mind to execute you, Lord Quinn," Edward spoke in a grave tone, carried in faint echoes across the vast room.

Quinn stared at Edward long and hard, his cloudy gray eyes were wide and open, locking with two black holes. "I know I am breathing because you spared me on the field, Cullen," he said. "Despite what many of Victoria's lords may think of you, I know a man of honor when I see one. I give you my gratitude, even if it has been wasted on me." Quinn bowed, showing his appreciation. Another reason for Edward speaking was that he had in fact spared the prisoner's life.

"It gladdens me to hear, Lord Quinn. But I did not spare your life only to have it thrown down the gutter now."

Quinn frowned and shifted in place, straightening his gambeson. "What?" he asked, not believing what he was hearing.

"Her Royal Highness is most gracious and knows the value of your life. She means to spare it again, if possible," he answered calmly. Rosalie gripped the handle of the throne hard, her knuckles turning white. Lord Athar could not help to notice as he sat close to her right side. "We can still turn this around," he leaned in and whispered to her. But he only received a shake of her head.

Quinn looked at Rosalie and an involuntary sadness presented itself in his eyes. He looked around at the other lords; those who had chosen to follow her. "I know why you are with her and not Queen Victoria. I fully understand," he explained. "Had it been different, I would have joined you as well. Her Royal Highness is a respectable woman, I daresay she has qualities that her sister… lacks," he admitted. "Your Royal Highness shows true kindness and a strong heart. But it is not the heart of a ruler. For sometimes a ruler must be harsh. Not as ruthless perhaps as your sister, but harsh. I understand some among you hesitated in attacking me full force during the battle. A true king or queen would have extinguished my forces to send a message." The words weighed heavy and even Quinn did not seem pleased by them.

"I beg to differ, my lord," Rosalie countered. "I did not hesitate that day out of fear. I paused to think of the lives that would be lost—of the lives that were lost. My sister has lost her ability for compassion. Perhaps that makes her strong in your eyes. But in mine, it makes her weak, a person lacking simple human emotion." Her voice rang strong in the Throne Room of her ancestors. It sent a chill down Athar's spine as he listened to the daughter of his long-dead friend speaking. "And maybe you think me weak and unfit to rule because you have only known one type of ruler; the hard and ruthless kind."

Quinn hesitated. He was not much older than her, that was true. He had been too young to see the peaceful days of Philip Fell. He had only known the rule of Magnus, Jasper and, now, Victoria. "Maybe so, maybe you are right in that regard. But there is another matter which I cannot ignore. I consider myself loyal to the crown and what it represents. I follow your sister because I believe her to be the rightful successor. I do not agree with what she did to her cousin, it was heartless and demeaning, I admit. But she is the oldest daughter of the first royal line. Magnus Fell stole what was rightfully hers. You are the younger sister, you have no claim to the throne. Not before her, I am sad to say. Had you been born a son—"

"Insolence!" Fawkes spat. "You will not insult her in my presence," he rose to stand, wincing at the pain of his fresh wound.

Quinn ignored him, looking back at Rosalie. "You surround yourself with the council of old men, of those who are the past. You have not taken active steps to outdo your sister. Yes, you have taken in a commoner as Field Marshal. But what else? Most of the men I see here are over sixty—too old to fight this battle for you. You are stuck in the past, Your Royal Highness. I am sorry to say it," Quinn bowed.

Rosalie felt the roughened wood under her fingers, every nook, and cranny, every scratch. "I surround myself with the same men that were loyal to my father, Lord Quinn. Those who knew a different Angloa, the Angloa I hope to build again. I do not do this because I claim a larger right than my sister. She is the first-born, as you say. But she is unhinged, she has done things beyond your furthest imagination." Rosalie stopped. She would not reveal Victoria's horrible actions, not now. " _She_ is unfit to rule and if by some chance I lose this war, you will come to that conclusion yourself."

A gentle murmur stirred, evoked by the prophetic speech of the princess. "Yet you somehow know you are in the wrong, or you would have crowned yourself by now," Quinn dared.

"I will only crown myself in Wessport, and when my sister is defeated and has abdicated. It would be blasphemous to do otherwise. I consider myself a good Christian who very much fears and respects her God. I will not insult him by taking the anointment and proclaim myself ruler of Angloa when someone else has already done that and is still living and breathing."

Edward stepped forth once more. "You have seen our reasons for this conflict."

"It will not change my mind, Cullen," Quinn shook his head. "I made a promise, I must be true to my word, even if it may cost me my life."

Fawkes and Athar exchanged glances. There seemed no way of making him see reason, even if Quinn very much wanted to. He was a slave to his honor and his word—much like they all had been at one point. But there came a time when a man realized when one's word had to be broken. Athar had experienced that when Magnus took the throne; he had sworn allegiance to him as he had hidden Leonore and her child away in Sorossa. Fawkes had sworn allegiance to Magnus, never meaning what he said.

But Quinn did not seem to break that oath. And, in some way, they had to admire him for it, however foolish it seemed.

"Your Royal Highness," Edward proclaimed as he stepped forth. "I suggest we set him free."

The low murmur now grew thrice in size and the protests sounded loud and clear. Rosalie grew suspicious quickly, wondering what the motivation was for freeing Quinn. What would Cullen gain from it? Was it a ploy against her? Was he setting his plan in action? Was there even a plan?

"Why?" she asked brusquely.

"Lord Quinn failed to hold Adelton Hall. He will not be welcomed back to Wessport. Taking his life is unnecessary. We have nothing to hide, let him tell about us to the others if he so pleases. Although," Edward turned around, facing the prisoner. "I doubt very much his honor would let him do that."

Quinn was, again, at a loss for words. But he found the change of events in his disfavor. If they let him go, Victoria would be suspicious of him, she would cast him aside. It would be a fate worse than death! His name would be tainted!

"No!" he exclaimed. "I went into battle set on giving my life for my country. Don't do this to me!"

The indifference in Edward, the way he regarded him made the blood in Quinn's veins turn to ice. Edward knew exactly what would happen to him if he was set loose. He was counting on it. The coy bastard! Quinn chastised himself, he should have kept his big, stupid mouth shut! Words of honor and keeping one's word had fleeted through the room and he had thought nothing of it. The masked man had just used it as his primary source against him. Geoffrey Quinn was baffled at such a play. He seemed to be one of the few people to notice it. Athar and Glovendale had caught on, as well as Lord Saxton. But the others thought Edward was merely showing unwanted mercy.

"Your Royal Highness, do as he says," Athar leaned in to whisper. When he got a confused glance, he answered with a satisfied smirk. "Trust me, Cullen might be doing us a grand favor."

Rosalie was indeed intrigued. What could it hurt? Why did Edward have to be so cunning? As cunning as a fox, he was. "Taking into account that you are the Head General, I will follow your advice, General Cullen," she stated. Edward bowed in gratitude

"Hear that Lord Quinn, you just turned into a free man by the grace of Her Royal Highness." Quinn did see the smirk breaking through the black leather mask and he suppressed a visible shiver. He could not ask them to take his life, he could do nothing but leave.

"This is not mercy, you are sentencing me to a fate worse than death. Victoria will dishonor me," he snapped.

"But my lord," Rosalie tsked. "I thought she of all people would know of your loyalty. My sister would not hurt you. Unless, of course, she was not a reasonable sort of person."

Quinn had been defeated at his word game by a woman and a disfigured man in a mask. It would be what was now remembered of him. In an instant, the glory following his supposed death had washed away with the flick of a finger. He had no more words, deciding thus to keep his mouth shut lest he worsen his situation. Victoria's adversaries were indeed worthy. Lord Athar and Fawkes might be the old generation, but it was Edward Cullen and those surrounding him who would serve Rosalie best. She had been wise in giving him Fawkes' post.

The meeting came to a halt and all dispersed. Rosalie did not stay behind to speak further and completely ignored Edward. He found her behavior odd but did not question it. He knew the princess was under immense pressure as it was. It was only wanting that she should react strangely at times.

He bid his goodbyes to Lord Quinn as he was escorted to collect his things. Lord Athar was pleased with what had transpired. Theodor Glovendale gave Edward a big pat on the shoulder before he left.

There was somewhere he needed to go. Someone he needed to see.

He had the old room next to her down to corridor. Out of propriety, Alice slept in the same room as Isabella. But she knew they were a wedded couple and was often away, or disappeared as soon as Edward entered, blushing madly.

He found her sitting by her window, reading a torn old book. Isabella was engulfed by the pages and did not notice him enter. She flipped the page and sneezed at the dust stirring from it.

Her diary held memories she had long since forgotten. The young woman was ashamed to admit that she had not given her deceased father much thought recently. Maybe it was the stress, her marriage— everything. It was all new, and he had been left in the background.

When the click of a lock sounded, she looked up. There he stood, leaning against the door, contemplating her in silence, mesmerized by her, as always. What hurt them most was that they were married, but could not act as a wedded couple. Not even her own mother knew of the union.

Isabella closed the book meticulously. "Well?" she asked expectantly.

"Lord Quinn is free, Her Royal Highness listened to me," he smiled, walking up to her.

"I'm glad he was not killed," she whispered. She had started getting over the sight of death—its smell, its horror. Edward's presence had been a comfort. She suspected it was the other way around as well, even if he did not openly admit it.

"Mmhm," he murmured, the sound deep in his throat, rumbling through his chest. The warmth of his breath drawing her in.

"Is that the only reason you are here?" she teased. "To bring me news?"

Edward grinned, understanding what she was referring to. He walked over to her and picked her up and carried her over to the bed, placing her down gently as he settled down next to her. They had lain once more since their wedding night. Isabella found it had been even more pleasant. He had provoked that unexplainable feeling in her again, that feeling of explosive ecstasy. There were now times where it would suddenly surge up deep within her, times when she needed him, needed his skin on hers, his lips kissing her senseless. He dragged off the mask as she helped him with his shirt, her fingertips resting briefly on the faint scars around his chest and throat.

A gloved hand snuck up under her skirts, to where none but he had gone before. Her breath rattled as he started, as she grabbed the cushions of the bed, wanting more and more. Isabella bit her lip as he took too long, almost torturing her, knowing she was ready for her explosion.

In an instant Edward stopped, looking at her flushed face and the frown that followed. With the largest smirk she had ever seen, a look of lust and hunger present in his green orbs, burning with intent, he entered her.

The feeling was new to her. The thrusts blended together, and Isabella marveled at yet new sensations. He had agitated her, she _wanted_ the thrusts, that feeling of being filled. She started moving with his body, settling into the rhythm, dancing in the sheets as one, grabbing on to him as they climbed together, reaching for new heights. Isabella had never known she could go this far. And she was greedily reaching further. Her eyes started blurring as a deep rattle broke loose, something unhinged and worked its way through her body, tearing through her every fiber. And, just as her climax progressed, he reached his own.

She could not help as a large moan grew into a cry of ecstasy, mingling with his. She arched her back and pressed her head into the pillows when she reached the culmination of pleasure and her vision blackened as her body tensed beneath his, his own responding to hers.

He settled down before she did, for she was still raveling in this deep and primitive feeling, this new sensation, delicious, dangerous and wild. She thought their wedding night had been an adventure. But Edward had just taken her hand and led her to a new plane.

He gathered her into his naked arms and they recovered together. Isabella would have blushed before. But now she felt so satisfied, that she almost did not mind if anyone had heard her screams of pleasure. She pushed a stray lock out of her face and turned to look at him, at her perfect Edward.

At the man she loved.

They were a unity, one now and forever. Lovemaking had always been portrayed as something so vulgar to her, that was the impression she got. But it was different with him. The lust was primal, perhaps. But what hid underneath it strengthened their union so much more. There was a meaning, a tie there that she could not explain. She wondered if he felt it too; if he would even understand as she expressed it in words.

"You should smile more, Bella," he whispered. "Not even the brightest star shines like you do when you smile."

She arched an eyebrow. "I never knew you to be a poet."

He chuckled, the handsome face lighting up as he showed off pearly white teeth. "There is a lot you do not know about me. I am but one person when I wear that mask. More hides beneath it."

"That is an understatement." She snuggled closer. "But I suppose you are right. I will have to get to know you better as time goes on."

"As I will you."

She pondered a thought for a moment, almost stopping herself from speaking. "I think I loathed you, once."

His deep green orbs flickered momentarily. Edward supposed it was at the start. Isabella seemed to read him well, for she shook her head. "In the beginning, I only feared you." She pointed to the mask, laying off to the side. "I think I had a good reason to," the young woman chastised.

He took her hand in his now ungloved one and tangled his fingers with hers. His larger hand engulfed her smaller one. "When, then, did you come to loathe me?" he wondered.

"When Braun told me he had killed you."

Silence.

Edward's lips pressed into a thin line. He could never have imagined what she must have gone through. He could still not understand what had kept her going. He had seen her cling on to a Damascus blade ever since Constantinople, but she would not speak of it and he would not press further on the matter. She shifted so her head was resting on her closed fist, she now looked down on him. "I thought you had left me all alone in the world." Isabella looked ashamed baring herself as she did before him. But the words flowed without her stopping them.

"And now you are afraid that might happen again," he filled in. Edward sat up on the bed and ran a hand through his hair. He then twisted a strand of his growing beard around his finger. "I would never let that happen."

"No, I know you wouldn't. To be honest, Edward, I feel that something else is coming our way. Whenever we have thought ourselves to be happy—thought that everything has ended up well, that we might persevere, it all came down in a big tempest. Remember the coup in Wessport? Remember when you left me to go save Jasper at the palace? How Braun kidnapped me? When Jacob and Carlisle showed up in that tower and told me you were alive I could not believe it, because I did not want my heart broken again. And when I saw you astride that horse on that cliff, I could not believe it either. I thought it was all over when we were on that ship going back to Angloa." She hesitated, changing the subject. She did not wish to think back to those bittersweet memories. "Would you ever have told me who you were if Braun had not forced you to unmask?"

The question should have caught him off guard. But he knew it was coming, Edward had been waiting for it for long. She had dropped it on him before, but not like now.

"Probably not."

"Why?"

"Because you seemed content with me, despite the mask. And I was afraid that, once you found out what it hid, you would push me away. I did not want to risk a possible future with you." She had wanted to speak against him, to say that the way he thought was wrong. But she understood his reasoning.

"Is that why you wear it?" He sat up now, clearly uncomfortable. "I just want to understand. I am your wife, Edward." As if that was reason enough. 'I love you', she wanted to say, but the words did not emerge.

He looked at his hands, at the scar on the back of his left one, memories from his childhood emerging once more. "My mother fought so hard to protect me from the crown, from the sorrow that it brought into her life. I did not wish to cast all her efforts aside. I put on the mask for selfish reasons. And out of fear," he admitted. It was a dawning moment for him, for he was just starting to realize how much that mask had really hid—how much he had hidden within it. "I wanted to erase my lineage, my past…the pain."

He remembered the look his mother would sometimes get in her eyes whenever he had asked for his father. He remembered the disdain on Claudine's face as he asked about his country, his lineage.

And then a feminine hand found his, a pair of chocolate eyes met his and another hand cupped his cheek. She reassured him with a mere touch, with a mere look. She reassured him with her presence. She understood; she was there. Isabella appreciated what he had just shared with her, another layer removed between them, another vulnerability shown. Melike had warned never to trust anyone but herself. But how could she not trust in Edward when he so heartfully trusted in her? Her forehead met with his and they shut their eyes for an instant. If their union a few moments before had been powerful enough to provoke screams of pleasure, their union now—that of the soul—was muted, but it ran just as deep.

I love you.

The words hung in the air, unspoken, unsaid. But they knew of their presence. And that was enough.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay in this chapter. Tomorrow I start my vacation and will therefore not be posting next week. I hope you won't mind. I will try to post two chapters the following week of my return.**

 **Thank you for the wonderful reviews, the feedback and the input on the chapters! I want you to know that I truly listen to all the constructive criticism you have to offer! It is great to hear your theories, to see you try to figure out where this story will go. I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well!**

 **I will see you later in July, hopefully, more rested and with a bunch more updates to satisfy you all!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	12. Chapter 12

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 12_

 _July 24_ _th_ _, 1520 – Wessport_

Victoria drummed her nails against the wood of her chair. The assembly looked more nervous than ever as they relayed the news.

Lord Quinn had been released.

While Rosalie's name was still tainted by the massacre at Adelton and Hayes, it had been lessened by her show of mercy. And by making Fawkes the main scapegoat. She never knew her sister could play the game so well. But Victoria knew it was not Rosalie behind those harsh decisions. She suspected Athar, Fawkes, and Cullen were orchestrating most of it.

Her nightmares had worsened ever since her sister retook Adelton and Cadherra. She knew what came next. Her eye would now set on New London, on the old capital. Victoria could not let that happen.

There would be another great battle, in Sorossa no doubt.

She did not want it. Rosalie still held a soft spot in her heart. It still beat for her sister. Her only anchor to humanity left. Victoria knew it deep down, that she was losing grip on herself. She knew, somewhere within that she had fully turned into Rebecca, the woman she had sworn to loathe for the rest of eternity. But she would not accept it in her heart, she _could_ not accept it. The defeat of knowing that Rebecca won out, in the end, bore down heavily on her shoulders.

"Your Majesty?"

Victoria snapped back from her thoughts, clearing her voice. "Continue," she ordered Alistair who kept reading reports. "The English have stepped on land at Castell. We sent an envoy to intercept them and to see what their reasoning for such a brash action is. We hope diplomacy will help us here." Victoria knew diplomacy was wasted. But it might buy them some time until she defeated her sister.

"And?" she continued, irritated when Alistair stopped.

"Well," he seemed nervous, too nervous. The other lords snuck glances at him, frowning as he would not go on. "There are rumors, Your Majesty."

Victoria massaged her temple. "Rumors?" She was growing impatient.

"Rumors that you might have something to do with the presence of the English," Alistair trailed off.

Suddenly her monotonous movements stopped. Her breath froze in her lungs while piercing dark eyes found him standing with parchment in hand.

"How dare you?" she snapped. Her viper eyes trained on him, her nails digging into the wood as she leaned forward, baring her teeth.

"I am not the one spreading these rumors, Your Majesty. Some northern lords have grouped together under Lord Durun."

"I thought that fool died," she said.

"I think he might have escaped and fled north.

More problems. If it was not one thing, it was another. Lord Durun had been known to keep good relations with Cullen. He would join the rebels in a heartbeat. And his good friend, Lord Rajac was among them as well. She could not afford this, not now.

But then, in an instant, an idea suddenly formed in her mind.

"We leave the northerners for now," she started. "Let them battle the English if it comes to that. Let the two sides tire each other out. Whoever wins or loses doesn't matter to us—the victor will be too weak to face our armies," she grinned. The other lords nodded amongst themselves, it was a good plan.

"We ride south, then?" Lord Savoie wondered.

"My sister will start looking at New London soon. I cannot let her take that city. It is of strategical importance. And of great value. It represents the past of this country and I will not let those who follow her taint it."

Another large battle was on the rise. They could already sense it in the air. But, this time, Victoria would not ride south with them. She sent her best and most loyal commanders; Savoie, Alistair, and Launël. They would stop Rosalie from reaching New London. It was a city she would not let her sister have.

New London had been, in every sense and purpose, a stunning city. Its beauty had once rivaled the many other cities in not only Europe, but the world. The Angloans had shown great pride in it, the city that had stood large, even before the Roman conquering. The city who bore marks of different ages; aqueducts, great pillars rising to the skies. A large palace, unlike anything, ever seen, more than a thousand years cemented into the foundations. When the English came, the city grew to be known as New London and felt almost tainted to the Angloans. It grew into the seat of power of their conquerors. It had been robbed from them, the stigma never quite vanishing. Victoria found it a pity. She had only seen it once, as a little girl with her father. But it had left an impression on her. An impression of something once pure now spoilt.

And she would not let Rosalie take it.

"Maybe you should trick the English to New London to fight your sister, have them help us with this problem, Your Majesty," a nasal voice echoed. Cardinal Thorpe stepped forth. The slithering worm, Victoria thought.

"I will not allow the English to touch that city again, Thorpe," she snapped. She knew that, in the flick of a coin, the lowly bastard would abandon her.

"I believe it would be good for our cause if I went back to Rome, to the Vatican. I have friends who might—"

Victoria leaned forward with a sinister smirk on her face. "You are going nowhere, Thorpe." She would not allow him to escape again like he had when Braun had taken the capital, and when she had overthrown her cousin.

Thorpe shut his mouth firmly, bowing deeply.

The queen settled back, her iron eyes keeping her lords in check. Amassing a vast army to rival her sister's would take time. She wondered if the first autumn rains would come before they would face off on the battlefield.

 _July 25_ _th_ _– Adelton Hall_

Rosalie stared at the masked man walking down on the courtyard. She was several stories above him, watching, pondering. From where she stood, the whole open meadow stretching south and opened up under a clear sky, under a vibrant sun. Even from here she heard the leaves rustle in the breeze.

She knew she'd been born here. She had killed her mother in this castle. The feelings were mixed and already joined the confusion and mess present in her mind.

Light steps caught her attention. Lord Athar joined her in silence, both enveloped by the aura of Cadherra, its beauty, and magnificence. It was a moment of peace, a moment both appreciated. Rosalie had noticed how Athar had taken his distance lately.

"I find it strange you seek me out so readily, Lord Athar," she murmured after a while.

"I am only your advisor, I come when you ask. I give counsel when it is needed," he answered as he leaned against the stone wall next to the opened doors.

She dragged her weary gaze away and met his. Athar's white hair and beard had been trimmed. He did not look as worn down as when they had first seen him in Raven's Grove. He was more come to life, more vivid now. The kindness in his eyes warmed her—despite her fatigued state.

"I wonder when my sister's forces will arrive this time," she murmured in the direction of the wind. News from spies stationed in Wessport told them that Victoria was gathering her armies yet again, preparing to ride south.

Athar went over to stand next to her. "You remind me of your mother when you worry so," he smiled.

Rosalie's lips settled into a thin line. "I have only ever been compared to my father, Lord Athar."

"Because, in some senses, your father's reputation overshadowed your mothers, even in death. But those of us who still remember Marianne, her kindness, and devotion to Angloa, treasure her. And you have much of her spirit in you."

"Maybe, if she were alive, she would know what to do," Rosalie whispered. She would not reveal to Athar all the fears that plagued her, the confusion, the mistrust. She could not even force herself to trust him now. The young woman had grown somewhat paranoid ever since she had overheard the conversation between Alan and Edward in the stables. She had come up with chores for Isabella Swan so that she might not remain by her side. What if even _she_ was a spy for Cullen?

Wrinkles in his forehead grew deeper with his frown, the creases by his eyes digging into his skin. The gray orbs saddened. No one should have to carry the burden Rosalie carried. And there was little he could do to relieve that burden. He hoped he would find the time, someday, to speak of Marianne's death—of how he thought it was not a mere accident. But how could Rosalie stomach hearing her mother might have been killed? It would be too much for her now.

"At a loss for words, Lord Athar?" the princess asked in surprise as he did not answer. Lord Athar always seemed to have an endless source of wise words to offer. But today she found him silent.

"I have found, in my old age, that silence is the only truth we need. It speaks more than a thousand words ever could. Nothing I say will ever dull the pain you feel at the loss of your parents. Nothing." He spoke with experience, for Athar had known loss all too well. And, indeed, whatever his friends and relatives had said at the loss of his wife and child, it had not served to remove the pain.

Rosalie nodded. He was right. Silence was a strange comfort. But not that absolute silence, which she hated. The ruckus of the mid-morning, carts rolling around in the courtyard, the laughter of soldiers, the smell of bread, the rustle of the leaves… Every-day life was never truly silent. That, coupled with his wordless presence, did comfort her to some degree—to know that he shared in the same pain for he had known it too.

"New London," she finally said after a while. "That is where we go to next."

"Your sister will be expecting it." A hint of hesitance laced his voice.

Rosalie gripped the stone of the low wall harder. "If she reaches the city before we do, it will never be ours."

"Yours," Athar corrected. She turned to face him. "Or have you forgotten that we are all fighting for you?"

She smiled, a soft twitch of her lips, her golden locks whistling in the wind as she embodied the aura of her late mother. " _We_ , Lord Athar, not _I_ ," she corrected. It was a way to distance herself from her sister.

Athar's brows furrowed again. Rosalie was too kindhearted to be a ruler. But he suspected she had long since realized it.

She walked back inside, by the table with a game of chess prepared. Rosalie sat down by it, on the Persian rug, the tapestries hanging heavy on the walls. The room grew dull. It was hard to be free there—was all she could perceive. "Shall we play a game? It has been some time," she asked. After all, it had been Athar who had taught her the rules a long time ago, before she had been sent to the convent.

He sat down opposite the princess. But before they started, Rosalie interrupted him. "Could you send a man to watch Lord Cullen?" she asked casually. Athar should have grown suspicious. But in that instance, he trusted so much in Rosalie's good nature. He did not question her request.

"Of course, Your Royal Highness," he nodded.

* * *

Alice thought her shoulders and arms would break from the weight of the linen and towels. But she braved on through the familiar corridors. Many known faces would pop up here and there. To her heart's relief, they were all smiling. She left the linens to be washed. Alice did not question why Isabella's bed had gotten _such_ stains. She knew her lady was now a married woman. If anyone asked, she would say they were hers to spare her lady the shame.

She passed a group of soldiers, recognizing Carlisle and Jacob amongst them. They were all engulfed in something Carlisle was telling, himself completely taken by his story. Alice could not help but stop and listen as well. The minutes passed, and she was engulfed in the story as well.

Alice jumped as a hand squeezed her shoulder. "If you have nothing better to do than stand and listen to a soldier's silly infatuation, make yourself useful and help me in the Palas," came the accented voice of Sofia. Alice grew tense in the presence of the gypsy, the supposed witch of Raven's Grove. She did as she bade, too afraid to hesitate, and left to help the other women at the infirmary.

Sofia lingered on Carlisle, frowning before picking herself up, following Alice. The Palas was filled with cots where wounded soldiers from the battle lay. Some were still fighting for their lives, others were sleeping off the worst of it. Some might not wake up from their sleep. Sofia passed by one still man in his early thirties. His chest was not moving anymore. She put aside the small bag of herbs and kneeled by his side. The gypsy pushed away his copper locks, his face white with a shade of gray to it.

This man had given into the eternal sleep.

He would never again see another dawn, feel the rain on his skin or hear the tales of his fellow soldiers. He had fleeted away now and forever. Sofia did not hold the same beliefs as her fellow Christians. She was a gypsy but had grown up devoted only to nature. This man would now become one with the earth.

A small, thin blanket of dirty linen lay at his feet in a heap. She picked it up and placed it over the still figure, covering his head with it as well. She mumbled some words of comfort to his wandering soul, hoping it would find freedom in death.

Watching the old woman care for the dead in such a manner was a sight. The way she carefully handled him, how her gaze softened, brought tenderness to the heart of the onlookers.

Renée dotted the forehead of the feverish patient, not able to take her hands off the gray-haired woman with the black eyes. She imagined Sofia had seen a lot of death in her lifetime to such an extent that it was part of her now.

Renée let one of the nuns take over and went to see the woman who had saved her life. She was drawn in, like so many others.

"Another three have succumbed to their wounds, señora," Renée informed her. The only place where she found purpose in this war, was by helping the wounded. Her daughter was involved with more important matters; she was the lady in waiting to the princess, after all. But Renée shied away from importance. Helping others, soothing wounds, reassuring the sick—it brought a sense of peace to her. She suspected it did to so many others present as well.

"That makes four today," Sofia answered, walking to the farthest corner where her stash of supplies were stacked. Renée followed.

"You should not blame yourself," Renée tried. She saw the tense shoulders, the hidden frown. The deep wrinkles grew deeper, the lips pressed together as she squared her jaw.

"I'm not," Sofia snapped in her direction as she fumbled with her bag, putting small glass bottles into the small wooden closet of the corner, next to a worn-down table. "If I let every death affect me, I would have lost my footing a long time ago."

Renée took a step back at the force of the comment. "The deaths affect you, whether you show it or not, señora," she said respectfully.

"Everyone dies, eventually. It is a fact of life—and there is nothing that can stop it." She stood up but did not leave. The peace of the Palas muted the severity of her response; the impact it would otherwise have provoked in Renée.

Renée had always wondered at the relationship between Edward and Sofia. It was clear that it ran deep—deeper than anyone cared to admit. "Everyone dies," Renée whispered back. The words did not frighten her as much as they had before. Her husband had succumbed to the cold hand of death. She had witnessed it rip her family apart.

Sofia closed in. "Sometimes, that is not a bad thing," she added. The aura grew dense, heavy. A mysterious air invading the Palas—a foreign force unknown to Renée. She felt naked under the heavy gaze as the raven eyes bore into her very soul. She had heard the rumors: Sofia the gypsy was a witch. She could do things beyond anyone's wildest beliefs. Renée had never been superstitious. But now she started questioning her own beliefs. An invisible fog crept around them, claimed them. A force of nature that, strangely, she did not fear. It was simply new to her.

"Sometimes, the old must die to give way to new life." Her voice was deep and low as she stared at Renée. The younger woman shivered under the steadfast gaze, feeling the stays press into her ribcage as her lungs contracted and expanded inside her chest. It was as if Sofia knew a secret she did not.

"What if the new is worse than the old?" She had to whisper. Renée did not wish to break the mystical air, the magic moment.

Sofia stepped in closer and grabbed hold of her arm. "We never know until it is too late to stop it." The words sounded almost like a prediction; did she know the outcome of the future?

Renée broke free and took a step back. She turned away, confused and alarmed at their strange exchange. She walked away, feeling the coal black eyes dig into her back, chills running down her whole spine as she stepped out of the Palas. But Renée knew she would be back, seeking more answers.

 _July 29_ _th_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

They had little stomach for food, for conversation. They were as worried as the rest, all had heard the news—Victoria was once again marching on them. The race for New London had started. Athar stared at the cold meat, his appetite gone, his mouth as dry as the sand on his boots.

Fawkes had been chewing the same thin bone for the past five minutes, staring at the open window across the room, how it made the curtains by it billow lazily. Theodor was reading—or at least he tried. Lords Saxton and Rajac did nothing, they had remained as silent as the rest. They all knew the impending battle did not bode well. The men had been prepared, Rosalie was keen on leaving as soon as they could.

But one man was missing, one man they rarely saw. Edward. He managed, by some twist of fate, to disappear as soon as he was done with his duties. While some of them wondered where he might be off to, others knew all too well where the masked man ventured. If they had a woman as beautiful as Isabella Swan to go to, they would not think twice about it. It made Athar's mouth form into a sly smile, despite himself. But, then, the other alarming thoughts sprung to life once more.

"They say a storm is coming," Saxton mumbled as he played with a pocket knife. "That it will come upon us when we reach New London."

"We might be lucky," Theodor hoped.

"We only need to take New London before the harsh summer rains set and then wait it out," Fawkes joined. "Perhaps it will lift Her Royal Highness' spirits."

In Angloa, every summer, there would be a week where it would rain constantly. It would ruin the country, turn roads unusable, destroy crops and farms. And they already sensed the electricity sparking in the air.

"You have noticed it too?" Rajac added, the scarred side of his face turned away from them. "She seems bothered by something."

Athar frowned. "She is at war with her sister, of course she is bothered."

"This is different," Saxton said. A hint of worry dotted his features.

They all went quiet again. Saxton kept playing with the knife. He wondered if Matthew Alistair would be at the battle—wondered if he would get the chance to kill him with his bare hands. Oh, how he would make him suffer. Saxton still remembered the mutilated bodies of his child and wife. He blinked the memory away, followed by a shiver despite the afternoon warmth.

Rajac rested his chin on his hands, wondering how his wife, Amalia, was doing. He hoped she was surviving well, hoped she would fight and hold out until he came for her. "At least Lord Durun's rebellion will keep some of her forces occupied for the time being," he muttered.

When they had gotten news that Durun was alive and fighting the queen from the north, they had cheered. Yet another force was now striking against her. "But the English have invaded the north via Castell once more. He will be occupied fighting them off," Theodor sighed.

Subdued once more. Until Athar had to speak. The men present in that room were men he would trust his life with. "Have any of you noticed the special attention Her Royal Highness is giving to General Cullen?" he asked carefully.

Theodor chuckled. "Who hasn't." He downed a large gulp of Friar Nicholas' mead.

"If you ask me, both Fell sisters were always very keen on Cullen," Fawkes joined in.

"I do not think it is in the… _same_ way as her sister. It is almost as if she is wary of him," Athar continued, uncomfortable.

Saxton stared emptily at the ground. "Our natural instinct kicks in at the oddest times. We fear what we cannot see, cannot understand. It is only wanting that Her Royal Highness should be wary of a man in a mask."

"She was not before," Athar mumbled to himself. "Something has changed." But his suspicions drifted away. They were all too tired and worn down from intrigue. They did not need it now. All there present trusted more in Cullen than anyone else. They knew he would be the last person to betray them.

They were summoned later that evening to the general assembly. The outcome was expected: only a confirmation of the invasion of New London. Rosalie had listened to her advisors and she would take the old capital. She would go as far as to travel with her forces to inspire courage among her ranks.

Rosalie had made Fawkes gather her forces and announce what would transpire the coming few days. They would cross Raven's Grove to the north, into Sorossa and onward to New London and take the city. They were now around 5000 men strong, some loyal men from Coldwick had joined and added to her army. It would be enough to besiege New London for a few weeks, maybe even to meet Victoria if it came to that.

But they were not expecting Victoria to arrive so quickly, not when she had to pass the Durun mountains. Rosalie and her advisors were certain enough that they would overtake New London soon enough.

 _July 31_ _st_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

The day met them in splendor, the army leaving Adelton Hall a sight to behold indeed. It went in a long line, stretching like a snake across the meadow until it was engulfed by Raven's Grove once more. Isabella was in one of the towers, watching as Edward once more set out for another mission, wondering if he would return. Her face paler than usual, her visage presenting signs of fatigue. A headache had started setting in.

She soon left and found herself tediously sorting linens at the Palas when Renée joined her. "When your father left home, I had the same worried look on my face," Renée smiled. "When we were newlyweds, there was not a moment where we could be separated."

Isabella dropped the stack of textiles and looked at her mother with a shocked expression. Did she know?

Renée took her daughter's hands in hers and squeezed them with reassurance. "The look you hold in your eyes whenever you are with him was the same I had with your father. Treasure it, my love, it is hard to come by these days." Renée had finally seen, finally understood the deep connection surging between the two lovers.

"I am afraid he will not come back, mother," she whispered.

"He will come back… to you he will always come back, Isabella." She gazed at Sofia, feeling the raven eyes watching them. "There are some who think we should not let our emotions rule our senses. But if you block out everything, the good and the bad: the love and the fear, what are you left with?"

Isabella's gaze wandered to Sofia as well. "A reassurance that I will not be hurt." She looked down. "That my heart will not be broken."

"And you will have never enjoyed your time with him. Had I been the same with Charles, with your father, I would never have appreciated the time we had together. You are allowed to be afraid, you are allowed to _feel_ , Isabella."

* * *

Rosalie rode alongside Edward in silence. Awkward silence. There was little she dared say to him. She was constantly struggling.

The road ahead of them was long and rough. Ominous clouds already settled in the sky. The summer rains were pressing on them. But the army that trekked through the forest would not turn back.

He had noticed her absent state whenever around him. Edward would press her on the matter. But not now. Now he needed to focus on the task ahead. If they could take New London, _Safeira_ , the old capital, they would no doubt have taken a huge leap in the war.

The days fleeted on, the army pressing on. Subdued, almost tranquil. Lord Athar was in constant conversation with Lord Fawkes. They went over the plans at all times.

Saxton would find time to sharpen his weapons or just lean casually against a trunk, fighting the urge to take a nap.

Sometimes, when he thought he was unseen, he would venture to Rosalie Fell's tent and hesitate before entering. But the princess would invite him. What went on inside was a mystery to Edward. He knew Rosalie to be a virtuous woman who would never let a man touch her outside of wedlock. And he knew the love Emmett still held for his dead family.

Maybe both had found solace in the other's company, a sort of solidarity. That was what he would like to think.

It was a muted and gray day when they caught sight of the high walls of New London. They had finally arrived, the army set on their goal.

High stone walls encircled the city, with gates that reached for the sky. But beyond them, they saw the blue rooftops that had given New London its original name; _Safeira_ , Angloan for Sapphire. For it was the sapphire city, the forgotten gem of their nation.

In the sun, the blue rooftops would glisten and shine as radiant as the moon. But New London was subdued—had been subdued and tainted for decades, even centuries. The old splendor was forgotten.

It was there where Rosalie opened her eyes, for the first time since having fled Wessport, she wanted something: that city, an ancient whisper of the past.

The bells of the distant cathedral tolled, the music reaching the army. Their arrival had been noted. And just as the delightful music of the bells invited them in, the loud boom of the main gates, the wood painted in blue, told them to stay out. They were not wanted there.

The siege had begun.

* * *

 **A/N: Back again! I hope you enjoyed this update. We have a heatwave currently hitting Sweden. Today we hit 32 C in Stockholm. Not normal! And the houses here are not really built for that kind of warmth. They're built to keep the warmth _in_. So you can imagine how this week is going. I'm not complaining though! (We are, however, seeing a lot more forest fires than before...like a loooot).**

 **I will try to post chapter 13 this week as well. Thank you for your wonderful reviews and your amazing patience!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	13. Chapter 13

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 13_

 _August 7_ _th_ _, 1520 – New London_

A week of overbearing waiting had passed. A week where they had stared at the towering walls of the ancient city and no progress. The feat of conquering New London dwindled each day. It grew into something impossible. The army started losing patience for it did not really know how to proceed. Soldiers had tried to scale the walls in waves, makeshift ladders lining up as they came running under a shower of shrapnel fired together with darting arrows—alas, that proved to only waste lives.

Lord Athar grew anxious. They all did. It was only a matter of time until forces from the north came for them. While originally expected to be brief, the siege now developed into a waiting game. Alas, they were positive they could take them, and thus show New London that Rosalie's forces would persevere until the city opened their gates for them.

And the day did indeed arrive. Heavy summer rains had fallen the previous days like a massive curtain dragging across the otherwise arid land. Angloa had been dry, her color that of gold more than of her usual green. She craved the water and was grateful as it descended upon her. However, it couldn't have come at a worse time for Rosalie's forces.

It seemed as if the heavens opened and emptied their whole contents on the waiting army. The non-stop raining started getting to the soldiers. There was no comfort in sleeping in cold mud, there was no comfort in the wounds that would emerge from the humidity their feet were exposed to. All grew restless, longing for home, for their wives sighing into their ears, kissing them gently on the lips. Others thought of their children running to them, of smiling neighbors, of a quiet and peaceful lazy afternoon in the shade of some tree.

Lord Athar, Saxton and General Cullen sat in a tent, overlooking their options. They knew they could not continue in this way. They had made a mistake in thinking they could besiege New London without a lot of preparation. Wanting to take the city before Victoria got to it, they had acted too quickly and thoughtlessly rushed through Raven's Grove, believing the city would fall before them.

Fanners and flags flapped forcefully in the absence of rain. The air was so loaded with electricity that they could practically taste it on their lips. It was just around noon, but the heavens had grown so dark that it felt like night.

A young auburn-haired man shot in through the folds of the tent. The officer, a captain by the name of Marcus, looked like he had just seen a ghost.

"She has arrived, my lords. Scouts just returned from the north!"

"Victoria?" Athar asked as he shot up from his chair.

The captain nodded with quivering lips and shaking limbs. "She brings an army the likes I have not seen since the war with the English!"

"How many?" Edward asked as he leaned forward.

"The scouts counted ten thousand, at least," Marcus whispered.

Emmett's mouth dropped at the number. They were overpowered, out in the open and with limited ways to flee.

Edward already knew what they had to do. "We leave, now," he hissed.

Athar shot up from his chair and strode over to the captain. "How close are they?"

"A few hours away at best!"

The urgency in the men grew. A decision was to be made. If they stayed and fought, they would most likely die. But if they left, they lost New London forever, and most likely the respect of the remaining lords.

Edward saw the old advisor hesitate—a flickering glance and shift in stance gave his innermost thoughts away. He did not wish to give up the sapphire city. Not now, when they had gotten so far. Gray orbs glanced in the distance to the blue rooftops calling out to them tauntingly over the massive wall. So close, yet so far away. "Athar, we stand no chance. We leave now, for Her Royal Highness' protection," Edward commanded with what sounded like a hint of desperation.

Athar knew Cullen was right, deep within his heart he knew the masked general held sufficient experience to justify their retreat. If Edward Cullen wanted to rush back to Raven's Grove, he should not protest. But he could not let the army be rallied into retreat before checking with someone else. "Bring Fawkes," he told Marcus.

"Fakes will urge that we remain!" Saxton intervened. "I believe Edward is right, we have to go, or we will be slaughtered like cattle. We stand no chance!"

"And what of New London? What about the war? Victoria will have won—"

"This battle, yes, but not the entire war, Athar," Edward said, rushing over to grab him by the shoulders. His black-garbed form towered over, engulfing the grayish light present around them. Forest green orbs sought to shake sense into him, searched deep within Athar to find some way to reason with him, the black-gloved hands gripped his arms tighter around the thick gambeson.

"If Rosalie retreats, everything will have been for naught, we will forever be bandits of Raven's Grove," Athar growled. "And I would rather remain and fight than become that again."

The gloved hands let go. Where was the brilliant strategist? Where was the wise old man he had come to know as Athar? Edward had always found a sense of security knowing that Athar always held the answer, that he was a pillar of strength to lean upon—even if he had not openly expressed it. The masked man was certain he was not the only one thinking it.

Maybe his age had caught up with him for he found no way to reason with Thomas Athar. So he turned to Saxton just as Fawkes rushed in. "Would you agree with him?"

Saxton pushed red locks out of his eyes, his charming and handsome features subdued with a grim countenance as he locked eyes with Edward. "I do not see an easy way out, my friend." His gaze wandered over to Athar. "I understand your reasoning, just as I understand Thomas'."

And Edward knew why the once bandit of Raven's Grove was inclined to remain, even if he had no justifiable reason to do so. The fear of once more being driven back into Raven's Grove and live within her bosom as rebels and bandits was not appealing to any of them—especially not as winter was mere months away.

"Anthony, come, I am sure they have informed you?" Athar turned to his old friend stepping toward them.

Fawkes held the same mindset as the experienced advisor. He had no wish to leave, even before such a massive army. His pride ruled—not his senses. "I wish to remain." Fawkes stroked his goatee. "Alas, while I wish it, I know we should not. But it is not my decision anymore," Fawkes said. "My title was bestowed upon Edward—"

Rosalie walked in next, as alarmed as the rest. The color had drained from her face while her eyes looked at the somber faces of the arguing men, reading the rising tension present between them.

She had, no doubt, heard the news. "Ten thousand men march upon us, the army of my sister," she stated. "She means to secure New London."

"Your Royal Highness, we need to leave for Adelton, right away. It is not safe here," Edward tried. He hoped Rosalie would be more reasonable, that she would not wish to cast away unnecessary lives. Had it been before her eavesdropping of his conversation with Alan, Rosalie would have agreed in a heartbeat. She would have turned to Lord Athar, Saxton and Fawkes and ordered them to have her army pack up and retreat. Indeed, a good and seasoned warrior like Edward knew when to fight and when to retreat. He chose his own battles, on his own terms. It was the main recipe for his success.

But now it was different. She had grown suspicious of him, even paranoid. What if him wanting to retreat was a form of sabotaging her?

She had heard part of their banter as Fawkes entered. The old general seemed to want to stay and fight, Athar as well. Saxton had scarcely said anything.

She looked at her advisors, at those who followed her. Another decision was to be made, and she would have to make it. Rosalie lingered with her gaze on Edward. Maybe he wanted her to fail here and today. But she would show him, she would emerge the victor.

The princess ignored as her mouth dried, for she knew she spoke words that would doom several men. Yet, if Athar and Fawkes wished to stay—her oldest and wisest advisors—should she not follow their instincts? It was as much as she had gathered from listening in on them.

"We stay, and we fight, my lords. Prepare the men," she spoke with command in her voice. Rosalie feigned determination in her decision, but she feared it deep inside her soul. In one way or another, she knew it to be folly, she knew she had committed a mistake. And, yet, as her eyes swept past the man in the black mask, his tall form and imposing figure intimidating her somewhat, she remained steadfast in her decision.

"Your Royal Highness," Edward tried. But she cut him off.

"I will not turn away with my tail between my legs, Cullen. My decision is final."

Fawkes bolted out of the room, wanting to prepare the troops. They had the low ground, but they would be on the ready. If they lost, there were few places to run. The roads north and east would be blocked. To the west lay New London and the sea. To the south lay mountains adjacent to the Alban mountain range.

Edward's teeth gritted as he squared his jaw beneath the mask. If they would not listen to him, he might as well try to do all in his power to make sure they won the battle.

An old uncontained anger and fury pushed through and was exposed in his eyes. It had not been present there since the war with the English. It seemed his old self, The Lion of the North, was emerging once more. Rosalie shivered at the intensity and fury in his gaze. He darted for his horse as the camp was erratic with movement.

Rain had started falling when the first troops arrived. They appeared in the horizon, the sound of marching men echoing in the distance. The guards of New London had stayed at their posts, looking at the impending battle: one army massive and threatening, the other scouring to prepare for their demise.

Rosalie was at the back, overlooking her three thousand men. But as the army of Victoria arrived in the distance, drawing nearer and nearer, her heart sank in her chest.

As soon as it had started raining, more of her officers and lords had urged her to reconsider. Fighting in more mud and cold rain would do them no good.

Athar understood himself how age and pride had clouded his judgment. His mouth had opened, slacked under its weight, under the realization of the mistake he had committed in allowing them to stay. He had never been good at judging battles and he accepted that. He should never have advised they stay. But Rosalie had trusted her fate to the Lord, thinking that they might stand a slight chance.

Until she saw the massive army of her sister.

They heard them first. The war drums beating in the distance, a sound that conveyed fear—intimidating them all to such lengths that some soldiers had a mind to desert there on the spot.

Rosalie gripped the reigns of her mount tightly, her knuckles whitening as she looked to the front to where the masked general sat perched upon Cid, his gray stallion. She knew the men would follow him blindly into battle, would give their life for Edward. They would lose their forces on this day, in a futile and foolish attempt to recover lost pride and honor. No doubt it was foolish to run now, idiotic to have stayed until the very last.

Rosalie remembered the slaughter in Cadherra, remembered the lives lost. She did not wish that those who fought for her to succumb to a similar fate. It was as if her mind had been clouded by foolish pride for a moment. Pride and paranoia. The information she held over Edward had made her make foolish decisions.

"Call back the men," she breathed through gritted teeth, finding herself tonguetied before such a great force.

Rosalie realized her mistake, realized they should never have come to New London so unprepared.

Fawkes, straddling a horse next to her nodded. "We should have listened to Edward," he lamented.

The sentence sent Rosalie's teeth gritting even more. Maybe this was what he had wanted all along. But as she saw him poised on his gray stallion, calmly ordering the soldiers into formations, giving off a sure and decisive aura, she questioned herself. Rosalie would rather play into his hand than send her soldiers to their deaths. Alas, she had realized it too late.

Edward stared at the approaching army in anger as a soldier ran up to him. "General! Her Royal Highness is calling back the troops. We are to flee back to Raven's Grove!" the soldier said between hissing breaths.

The masked man sent Carlisle a questioning glance. "Does Her Royal Highness not realize it is too late for that?" he growled irritated. Those around them listened with keen ears. For many did not wish to stay and fight when they knew the battle was already decided. A chilling wind enclosed them as they heard Edward's words.

"But her orders…" the soldier trailed off.

"Start heading back with Her Royal Highness, Lord Athar, Fawkes and Saxton. I will remain behind and hold them off until you all reach Raven's Grove," Edward commanded with forceful words. The soldier was about to protest when two piercing eyes reached his and sent cold shivers through his body with their penetrating gaze. "That is an _order_ , soldier."

Edward would rather fewer of them succumb than the whole of Rosalie's army. He watched in silence as the soldier bolted back.

"They will squish us like flies, Edward," Carlisle whispered under his breath. His hands had grown clammy in his gloves, squishing the reigns of his nervous steed.

"Perhaps, but Rosalie will be able to escape."

Without another word, Edward headed for the other flanks, forcing them into formation. The soldiers readied their spears, the cavalry took the front, ready to face the might of Victoria's army. Rosalie watched as Edward readied his men.

"General Cullen is remaining so that you might have a chance at fleeing," the soldier exclaimed.

"If Edward is staying, then so am I," said Saxton.

Lord Rajac, who had come with them as well agreed. "I will not run while he fights for our survival. I stay with my men as well," he murmured, stroking his scar lightly.

Rosalie started realizing the respect Edward held, the admiration that had so grown for him. It scared her even more. But as Athar urged her to move, she could not help to feel a twinge of fear for him, a twinge of guilt for not ordering him to come with them. Rosalie realized, at that moment, that despite what she thought of Cullen, she did not wish him to die.

She left with more than half the soldiers as Cullen stayed on the front. The men gulped at the size of the nearing army. But they did not despair. The Lion of the North rode with them, and they were protecting their princess. They would not fail her.

The masked general stared at the nearing forces, gripping the reins of Cid tighter as impending doom rained down on them. He unsheathed his thin blade with his right hand. "Let them come," he yelled to the men.

"Audeamus!" they answered back. Those who had fought with him during the war with the English knew the words well. Others had only heard the motto. A word of daring, a word of war: a word of Edward Cullen.

"Audeamus!" he shouted back to his men. _Let us dare_ ; the old Latin saying of poetic prowess. And they had all taken it to heart.

The thunder of nearing horses blocked out the sound of fear. But it still clouded the air as lightning illuminated the sky. The guards of New London watched in awe as less than two thousand men stood ready to meet a cavalry of three thousand charging at them.

Rosalie and her fleeing party could only hear the clash sound behind her as they ran for the Durun Mountains. The princess vowed to herself that she would never again commit such a mistake or let her mind be thus clouded again. She made the sign of the cross and begged the Lord to forgive her as fear invaded her eyes. Fear and regret.

 _August 10th – Adelton Hall_

The gates of Adelton Hall opened to welcome them. Many came to greet them with smiles on their lips and high hopes. But as they beheld the gloomy countenances on the many faces of both soldiers and officers, they knew the battle had been lost.

Isabella Swan was present, ready to greet Edward on the spot. She looked around eagerly, asking soldiers left and right. Her heart rushed more in her chest as she could not find him. She finally came upon Rosalie as she dismounted her horse.

"Where are General Cullen and Sir Chaeld?" she asked. "Did they not ride with you?" She did not care if they had regained New London or not. Isabella simply wanted to greet him, hold him and feel his lips on hers once more. Feel the loving gaze which he so often bestowed on her.

But the wind stilled, the gray clouds lowered as Rosalie's face twisted in pain. Her world stopped for a moment, afraid of what was to come next. "They stayed behind, Lady Isabella," the princess whispered. Guilt charged at her as Isabella's features twist in pain and stumble where she stood.

"No," Isabella whispered as her mouth turned dry. Suddenly the air seemed fouler, her limbs grew weaker. "No, Edward cannot be—" She could not say the words, could not even think them.

A hand suddenly steadied her. Raven eyes bore into Rosalie as if they knew everything—knew the truth behind the matter. Sofia held Isabella in a comforting embrace. "Come, my lady. I need help in the Palas, some of these soldiers are in bad shape.

She did not give Isabella time to react, time to succumb to her worst fears even more. Rosalie watched in silence as the distraught young woman was forced away from her.

The princess shivered, knowing she had caused such hurt in Isabella's eyes. She turned to Lord Athar, for he had been by her side.

"I want you to have some of your most loyal men to bring me Alan Moore to my quarters when I am settled in," she ordered him with her lips in a thin line. Athar bowed to her wishes, wondering why out of nowhere, the princess wished to seek out the traitor.

* * *

Sofia had kept Isabella busy for hours helping soldiers mend minor wounds, feed them and make sure they settled in comfortably. Isabella asked around, wondering why it was that Edward was not with them. But before they could answer, Sofia was there, sending her to the next one.

When light of day finally disappeared, the young woman was exhausted. Her mother had been helping, as well as Alice and Mrs. Hammond. When they were done, Isabella finally lost her patience.

"You will tell me before that gypsy arrives and brings me away," she hissed. "What of my hu— what of Edward?" she pleaded.

The soldier was distraught, staring at the wide eyes, the wrinkled forehead and pursed lips of the woman before him. "We were forced to leave as Victoria's army came. Ten thousand strong at least, my lady," he whispered. Isabella lost the color in her cheeks. The soldier was unsure if he should continue. "Princess Rosalie realized they would wipe us out in no time and ordered that we leave. General Cullen stayed behind with half of the army so that the rest of us could escape."

She dropped the bucket. Two thousand men against ten thousand. Her chest hurt, her whole body ached as if she were fifty years older.

"Enough," a grim voice echoed. Sofia came up to them and took Isabella away from the soldier.

He knew he should have remained silent. "I am sorry, my lady," the soldier began. But Sofia had whisked her away.

Sofia brought Isabella out of the Palas so that she might recollect herself. But the young woman stumbled to the floor. "Edward," she exclaimed in fear. "He stayed behind!"

"I know," Sofia whispered.

"How can you be so calm? Have you no heart?"

She kneeled by her side, looking down at the ground. "Remember my advice, Isabella. It has not changed."

"I cannot—"

"You need to be strong or this will break you."

"What if he is dead?" she blurted out as tears started falling. She had no strength left in her anymore. Lady Renée had wandered out of the Palas as well and saw her daughter on the floor.

Pain flashed through Sofia's eyes briefly. "Then be glad for the time that you had with him," she whispered back to her. Sofia was strangely distant, dull to the shivering girl before her. All that Isabella had learned from Melike in Constantinople washed away as she let her fears display openly on her face.

Renée rushed to her daughter. "Come, Isabella," she said, helping her up. She exchanged a glance with Sofia. "Let us get you to your chambers."

"Can I stay in yours instead? They look out over Hayes and Raven's Grove."

"I do not think he will make it back today. You should get some rest," Renée tried.

"I cannot rest until he is here," Isabella pleaded. She had never known such fear.

Sofia looked at Renée. "Let us take her there, my lady."

Renée looked at her distraught daughter and then at Sofia. She nodded silently, hoping the gypsy could help her daughter.

 _August 12th – Adelton Hall_

The maids of the castle had never seen such busy days. A seeping worry worked in through the brittle cracks of their reality. There was still no news of Edward Cullen and those who had remained with him. But gossip flowed as much as Nicholas' mead.

They were helping out in the kitchens, with whatever they could. "I heard he requested to stay behind so that Her Royal Highness could escape," one of them said as she peeled potatoes, the arms of her shirt folded up and sweat pearled at her temples. The kitchens were always an oven this time of year.

"I heard the same thing. Could you ever imagine that Cullen, that once gloomy and frightening man, would become such a hero?" one of them put in.

The maids of the castle all remembered when he had first arrived, the fright he had inspired in all of them. But even they had perceived a change. "Lady Isabella has not slept a wink since Princess Rosalie's forces returned. Apparently, she sits in her mother's chambers—you know, the one overlooking the courtyard and the meadow to Hayes—waiting for him." Silence followed those words.

"Ever since Princess Rosalie's return? Has she not seen any rest?"

"Very little. She is waiting for him to return," the maid answered. All in the kitchens grew increasingly unsettled at such news and many sympathized with Isabella.

"Poor woman, she truly must be suffering."

"I never thought she'd actually come to care for him."

"I think she loves him, Johanna," another one said.

They all paused before getting back to their work. Gossip died out. They did not wish to speculate on such things. It felt out of place, tactless and a lack of respect. All hoped, for Isabella's sake, and for their own, that Edward Cullen would return as soon as possible.

 _August 13th_

The early morning fog lifted as daylight neared. The sky took on a pink hue, kissed by the first rays of the sun. Isabella sat in her white nightgown, watching the new day emerge out of darkness. Her chestnut locks hung loose, cascading down her back. The windows had been opened. She liked listening to the early morning birdsong. It calmed her unsettled mind. Just enough.

Surprisingly enough, Sofia had been the most supportive of them all. While Renée was lost, not knowing how she could help her daughter through the fear and pain, Sofia took Isabella's hand and slowly guided her through it. She helped her calm down and prepared her for the worst. Alice stayed in her room, knowing she could say little that would lift her spirits. But she knew her presence was helpful.

Dew shone like bright diamonds as light made them sparkle. The meadow swayed in the lazy morning breeze and her heart caught in her throat as she saw a large group of men tediously making their way to the castle.

She pushed the windows open fully, leaning forward as she saw them near, shaking when she realized that they were the troops that had stayed behind.

They were home.

Isabella went for her slippers and a burgundy frock to cover her nightgown. She woke Alice as she rushed out of the room, her running footsteps echoing through the desolate hallways. Frantic arms swayed by her sides; she had never felt so sluggish. Her legs did not move fast enough, she could not get down to the courtyard fast enough.

When she finally stepped out onto the courtyard, she noted the chill in the air, the freshness of the night still hanging like a draping blanket over them. A metallic scent mixed with earth and flowers filled her nostrils.

The gates opened, and they stumbled in, exhausted and worn out.

But alive.

Many were wounded, some had died on the way. Half of them had succumbed to Victoria's forces. She looked around, squeezed her way, trying to find a man in a black mask.

More people welled out of the castle as they were notified of the miraculous return. For it was indeed miraculous. Rosalie was one of them; never daring to believe that they would actually make it. A weight was lifted off her chest. And she, like so many others, saw Isabella Swan trying to find her Edward.

He rode in next to a joking Carlisle. Despite the defeat, their spirits were high—because they had survived. Alas, he remained subdued, trying to shake off the sight of desolation their confrontation had brought. The freshness of splayed bodies and running blood still echoed in his mind.

Edward let the reigns drop and Cid stretched his long neck. Dried blood across his flank and saddle unsettled him. But the stallion was never nervous when his master remained so calm. But now he noted how the man riding him grew agitated.

The masked general saw her standing there, shaking, trying not to let her tears fall, looking at him as if he were a ghost.

They all saw it, saw as he dismounted Cid, as he made his way to her and took her in his arms despite being covered in dried blood. She took his face in her hands and let the tears fall, let her exhaustion wash away finally. She kissed him and ignored the onlookers, for she only had eyes for him. Isabella could not understand how she had gone so long in life, how she had survived without ever knowing him until now. Edward was a part of her, she lived and breathed him.

He held her hard and long, his eyes closed as he breathed in her scent. She embodied everything that was good to him. She represented comfort and love, a bright future for them. He removed his cape and placed it around her, both ignoring the bloodstains. "Your dress and frock are very thin," he whispered in her ear. "And the air is cold."

Rosalie's heart grew soft at the sight. Her Field Marshal had returned, miraculously. Or maybe it was not such a great feat? How was it that he had managed to hold off and then escape an army of ten thousand men? Her features darkened as she started doubting in him further. What if he had somehow been allowed to escape?

She could not leave it thus. She knew there was something to be done.

Edward received the welcome of a true hero. "My fellow soldiers, let us hear it for our general!" a returning officer exclaimed to the soldiers there present. Cheers echoed throughout the valley as they all praised him in high spirits. For never had they witnessed a general who fought so bravely for his fellow soldiers.

"Edward!" they exclaimed. The masked man smiled as his wife pressed closer to him, leaning against him. Carlisle and Jacob exchanged smiled and knowing glances. "Edward!" it echoed again.

Rosalie's lips pressed into a thin line. She would let him settle in before she questioned him out of respect for him, Isabella and her mother. The princess could not tear them apart at this hour.

"Lord Athar, Lord Fawkes, direct me your most loyal men once more. Send them to my quarters together with Alan Moore," she whispered to them. They nodded slightly, overjoyed at the scene.

* * *

He was escorted into the Palas by order of his own wife. Isabella dragged him there before he could go anywhere else. Sofia had heard of his return, but she had not gone out to meet him.

She saw him standing there and promptly went to her office. Edward followed her with a grim countenance.

Isabella closed the door behind them. "You are back," Sofia stated through thin lips.

"That I am," he answered tensely, not knowing how she would react. Her whole body was shaking, her lips fighting hard not to tremble.

Edward neared her but she stopped him as she stumbled back. "No." Her voice wavered. But he did not care. He went up to her and embraced her.

Isabella's eyes widened as Sofia cried. She had never once seen that woman display any kind of emotion. Seeing her thus almost felt disrespectful as if it was something she was never supposed to witness. He held her as she cried against him for a long while. It registered with the young woman that Sofia must have gone through her same exact emotions: the fear of having lost Edward. But the gypsy had bottled them up, unable to tame them now that Edward was back.

"I am sorry if I frightened you, Sofia," he whispered as he held her.

"You idiot, we thought you had died! I thought I raised you better than that!" Anger served to calm her, as it always had.

He held her harder as she calmed. "I promise you that I will not die before you," he murmured with a smile on his lips.

She dried her tears and cleared her throat. In the flick of a moment, she was back to her old self, almost ashamed of her reaction. "Off with the shirt, I am almost certain you sustained some type of wound," she chastised like a mother would.

Isabella locked the door as Edward removed the black gambeson and stained shirt underneath. There were some cuts and bruises that Sofia took care of. She made him sit down on a stool as she cleaned his wounds. Isabella sat by him in silence and they all reveled in it. They felt like a strange family and had not known such peace for a long time.

She patched up Edward quickly and then sent the young couple on their way. She needed time to recover and Isabella wanted him for herself.

He took her hand, an urge of being with her alone. There was no need for explanations just yet. They just needed a moment of solace, a moment of time where they might come to terms with reality.

They both entered her chambers and sat on her made bed, their hands still clutching together. A tub with warm water stood ready. "I had Alice draw the bath for you," she explained as he looked at it. "I thought you'd want to wash up after such a journey," Isabella reasoned.

He kissed her again on the mouth. "Thank you."

Edward got up from bed and started undressing in front of her like it was the most natural thing in the world. She stared in awe as he wafted the gambeson and shirt on the floor, followed by the mask and gloves. She always stared when she saw his face, not yet used to the handsome features that hid under the leather helm. The muscles on his back contorted as he started removing his boots and hoses. Isabella's cheeks grew crimson as he was completely undressed before her.

They had lain together a few times, but she had never actually seen him naked. She had never really known how a man looked naked. Her eyes widened as she took in every nook and cranny of him. He turned around to face her and her cheeks grew a shade deeper as her eyes wandered down. Edward smirked when he realized what she was doing.

He got into the bath and relaxed as the hot water soothed his aching muscles. Isabella went to his side and pushed the long hair away from his eyes. Her hand trailed along his jawline. His beard had grown longer. "Why do you never shave it?" she asked.

"Because no one would notice the difference." A deep chuckle rumbled through him. "And because without this beard, I look even more like my father, if such a thing were possible." Isabella could not imagine a greater likeness than the one she witnessed now. But then she _could_ imagine it; the strong and square jaw hiding under the beard. However, she noticed some differences. Edward's eyes were not as slanted as his father's had been. They were brighter, clearer. Somehow, they were more open and held more charm to her.

He looked more handsome to her. But she reasoned it was because she loved him.

"Well, I rarely see this face, but I think it should not be hidden by this unruly beard of yours. Your mask already takes care of that." His chuckle grew louder, a sweet melody to her ear. It was a sign that everything was as it should be. If Edward laughed, it meant that all was well.

"When this war is over, Bella," he said turning to face her. "But now it is too much to maintain."

Isabella answered him with a gentle kiss on his cheek.

She left him to finish his bath and went to his rooms and got him a fresh pair of clothes and a cleaner mask. When she came back he had already dried himself with a linen towel and sat by the fire, wrapped up in the fabric, letting the heat of the flames heat his skin. Edward ran a hand through his hair, now reaching well past his jaw. Maybe he should have her shear it in the near future.

His back was ridden with yellow, blue and purple bruises. Red scratches and scrapes had started healing. Some, however, were more recent. He had reapplied the bandages Sofia had given him over the worst wounds. Isabella had thought most of the bruises were dirt, but she proved wrong. Eyebrows knitted together at the wounded and beaten man.

Isabella set the clothes on the bed just as he got up. He stood before her, towering over her and she could not help it as she ran a hand over his defined stomach, over the silver scars. There was a larger one on his left abdomen. His skin turned to gooseflesh under her touch as she trailed up and hesitated. The thin silver scars on his chest and going up to his throat unsettled her the most. She had seen them before. She was certain the wounds that had once been there had almost killed him.

He took her in his arms and kissed it to take her mind off it. He did not want her to think about losing him. He did not want her to hurt again.

"How can I ever let you leave again, Edward?" she whispered dreamily. The hot of her breath against his ear sent his mind spinning. "I thought I lost you."

"I will always return to you, Bella. You will never lose me," he whispered back.

They stood a long while there, not wanting to think how it all could have ended very differently.

Edward had almost dressed when someone knocked on the door. "Lady Isabella?" came Alice's voice from beyond the door. Isabella looked at him and then at the mask. Edward unwillingly pulled it on and she stepped behind him to help with the laces while answering her friend.

"Yes Alice?" she asked.

"Have you seen General Cullen? Princess Rosalie is looking for him," Alice muffled voice spoke as she turned the handle, slowly stepping into the room.

Her mouth dropped when she saw Edward right there with the top part of his shirt unlaced and Isabella lacing his mask shut. She thought she'd been drawing the bath for Isabella and not for anyone else.

Alice's cheeks quickly flushed red. "Her Royal Highness sent some men to escort you, General Cullen," she murmured. "They followed me. They are outside this door," she whispered as she walked in. "Best you…adjust your appearance a little more," she suggested. Her cheeks flaming red, the color trailing all the way down her throat.

Edward realized what Alice meant. Anyone could see that he had not finished dressing. And Isabella still wore her nightgown, the burgundy frock now discarded. The material was thin enough that it might be considered a lack of modesty if the guards saw it. Alice rushed to help Isabella into a more modest gown, pulling it over the white dress and lacing it up front. The red brocade with dark lilac accents hid her frame better. And as Alice dressed Isabella, Edward arranged his appearance.

"You two should be more careful," the maid suggested with after a while, looking at the floor to avoid meeting their eyes. "Only Jacob, Carlisle, Nicholas and I know that you are husband and wife. But others might think ill of you if they did not know the whole truth. Frankly, I do not understand why you must keep it a secret. We all know you two to be close—"

"Thank you for your honesty and concern, Alice. But I think it best we wait until this whole conflict is over. If the enemy knew we were wed, they would attempt to use her against me. For now, she remains my fiancée. It is safer than being my wife."

"But still—" Alice argued, not yet understanding.

"I am his fiancée, for now, Alice. If they knew we were wed they might think I am bearing his child and they might try to kill me or kidnap me," Isabella whispered. Edward never had to explain that to her, she had come to understand it herself. She sensed how he tensed up next to her and gritted his teeth. "But this conflict shall soon end, and then there will be no more of these secrets."

Alice curtsied as Edward gave Isabella a soft kiss. He walked past the maid and followed the four men, rather befuddled. He did not truly understand why Rosalie had sent four guards to escort him when one was enough.

* * *

Alan had come to Nicholas and asked that he whisk him away from the castle a few days prior—that his safety was again on the line. Nicholas thought it silly nerves from the war. But as Rosalie's soldiers had taken him to her quarters for the third time, he grew suspicious.

Nicholas then feared the worst, that Rosalie was trying to make Alan confess about what Edward hid behind the mask. He did not know the reason as to why the princess had to suddenly unmask her general. She had never before shown any such interest.

The friar rushed to find Edward, but the masked man was nowhere to be seen. He figured the husband might be with his wife. He rushed to Isabella.

"My lady," he said through gasps as he was let into her chambers.

"Friar, what brings you here? It is a Sunday today, are you not supposed to be at the chapel?"

"Where is he, where is General Cullen?"

"It seems everyone wants to speak with my husband today. Rosalie Fell's guards came half an hour ago to escort him to her quarters. I suppose they are to speak more of the war with Victoria."

Nicholas brow furrowed. "No," he trailed off. "No that cannot be. We must stop them! We cannot let him enter her chamber!"

Isabella grew as unsettled as him. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"Alan Moore has been summoned to Her Royal Highness' chamber several times and questioned these past few days. I suspect it is about your husband. This does not bode well."

Isabella's eyes widened in terror. "You do not think that she _knows_ , do you?" she uttered with dread. No, that could not be. For if Rosalie Fell truly knew who Edward was, she would have come for him herself. Isabella thought the woman incapable of harming him—she was not her sister Victoria, after all.

Nicholas and Isabella knew the damage Edward's revelation would cause. They knew it was best not to leave things to fate. Rosalie should never be put in a position where she knew who he was. Both rushed to her chambers, hoping they would arrive in time.

* * *

"I commend you on your excellence at the battlefield. Thanks to you, we were able to escape," Rosalie said as she nodded to Edward.

He bowed slightly. Field Marshal Cullen, the celebrated general, stood in her chamber, having been brought there by her guards.

The setting was of a more personal note than if he had been brought to the assembly room. "I am glad I could be of service. If Your Royal Highness will not think me brash, perhaps we might avoid such a situation in the near future," he put in.

She strolled over to the tall windows, letting filtered rays of sunshine in. Rosalie was uncomfortable, and he noticed. Edward also observed how more guards entered the room. Something was not right.

Rosalie grew tenser. "Perhaps," she trailed off. The blonde hair cascaded down her back, her hand traced the window-frame. She looked like a bird trapped in a gilded cage. Even from behind, her posture spoke of fatigue. Not physical, but mental.

"Alas, that is not why you have brought me here today," Edward stated.

His sentence set a chain reaction. Three of the guards suddenly neared him from behind and tried to pin his arms back. He fought them off, receiving a blow to the stomach. It knocked the air out of his lungs, a painful reminder that he was overpowered, nine-to-one. And the guards had swords when he only possessed a small knife in his boot, which he had yet to draw.

Edward fought harder, making use of his martial arts. Had they been fewer, he might have come out victorious. But soon someone managed to secure his hands behind his back with a forceful grip and twist of his arms. For the first time, he realized the severity of the situation.

Edward caught his breath and ignored the pain of the forming bruises. "You will not be harmed further if you cease resisting," Rosalie whispered. She could not face him—had not the strength to. The princess knew she was betraying him in every sense and purpose.

"Why?" he gasped between breaths as he was pushed down on one knee, recovering still from the harsh blows.

Rosalie buckled under the betrayal present in his voice. But she could not show him the true weakness it produced in her eyes. She almost went back on her decision. Maybe he could forget this incident? But how? He who had stayed behind and saved her, and her troops from certain doom, he who had given everything to her.

And now she betrayed him.

Rosalie knew there was no turning back. She only hoped he could ever forgive her if she was wrong. She made a sign with her hand and a guard went to fetch someone.

When Edward saw Alan Moore brought into the room, his heart dropped. His whole being filled with despair and dread. Alan was forced to kneel on the Persian rug, the invasive afternoon beams of the sun grew too harsh in his eyes.

When Alan saw Edward pinned down, he crumbled.

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter down! Sorry again for the delay as I did promise I would publish chapter 12 and 13 close together. I want to promise that chapter 14 will be out soon but my schedule has been so busy that it has been hrd finding time to revise the chapters. I have gone back to a few however, and after this fic is done, I intend to try to brush up the language a little. Or a lot.**

 **Anyway, let me know what you thought!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	14. Chapter 14

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 14_

 _August 13_ _th_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

"These guards are loyal to me and only me. They are sworn to secrecy."

Rosalie still kept her rigid back to them. Dust in the air danced a slow dance as the orange light of dusk pushed on through the window.

"I happened upon a rather intriguing conversation between you two a few weeks ago in the stables." When she turned around both realized what she was referring to. "You cannot fault me for getting suspicious of you, General Cullen." Fear hid behind feigned anger and accusation thrown his way. Rosalie was wearing a mask as much as he was.

He knew how it looked: it boded ill. The masked man recalled his conversation with Alan and an anchor dragged his hopes down to a bottomless pit. Without any context, it was only natural that Rosalie should suspect him. She, a woman grown up at court with false smiles and promises, was acting out of instinct.

Yet, something else pushed. Where was the pious woman, so kind, so warm to all? Fear had taken place, fear and uncertainty governed Rosalie while anger and lust for power ruled her sister.

"He never told me of any want for power," Alan tried. His tone was flat at first, but the regret broke through. Indeed, his full heart was not in his words. He too mistrusted the masked man's intentions. Yet, Alan had sworn to keep Edward's secret safe, and he would not willingly go against his word.

Rosalie looked up with glistening eyes and revealed the betrayal she experienced. It was an affront that she had taken personally. "To think my most loyal advisor," she mumbled with a broken voice and the sorrow in it cut away at Edward's heart; piece by piece. "To think that my most trusted general and the man who whisked me out of Wessport might be conspiring against me…" she trailed off. "I do not want to believe it." The echo of a scream left her lips, the urge to shout at him, to reprimand him. Alas, it was for naught.

"I would never betray you," he answered calmly. Edward knew by the look in her eyes that there was no reason to struggle. He might as well let her see who he was despite everything in his mind screaming at him to resist. His hands remained at his sides, his will the same iron that had walked with him on the road of life.

"Then answer me honestly, Cullen. Tell me that the face beneath that mask is indeed a ravaged one. Tell me _that_ is the reason you hide it." She was reaching out for something: she wanted to understand.

His lips pressed together while his jaw tensed under her golden orbs; stern yet desperate.

"Maybe the face beneath that mask is known to me," she whispered. "Maybe it belongs to someone from the English court or loyal to my sister. Who knows? Alan Moore would not tell me what hid beneath it. Then it only leaves me one option."

Her eyes were glazed over. A part of Rosalie seemed to have been dulled, locked away from common reason. She was set on her task and there was little he could say that would stop her from proceeding.

Edward tried to get out of the guards' grip. But their hands held him steady, twisting his arms painfully behind his back until almost pulling them out of their sockets. He had nowhere to go. He shook his head.

Not like this, not in front of Rosalie. What would his true face do to her? And what would it do when the guards saw who he was? Isabella was conjured up in his mind and his mouth dried at the possibility that he may not be by her side again.

"Please, Your Royal Highness," he pleaded. Few were those who had ever heard Edward Cullen plead. The guards closed their ears to the scene unfolding before them. They looked to the floor, most aghast that something like it was even taking place.

Her hands shook, and she clenched them into fists. "If I am wrong, I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me for the disrespect I am about to show you. I know I should trust you. But how can I after what I heard—with my own ears?" she asked in a thick voice. Rosalie knew she would not find a sympathizer for her cause with Edward.

"There is always another way. Do not do something you will regret," he almost begged her.

Rosalie trembled and tried to find solace within herself. It was too late now. She would bear this guilt with her for the rest of her life. She knew well the disrespect she was showing him by committing such an act.

"Take Mr. Moore away," she ordered two of the guards with knitted brows.

Alan was taken out of the room in muted protests. Although he had confronted Edward, he did not wish for the man to be taken out like this. He still respected him enough. Alan knew what he had brought upon the masked general and it bore down hard on him.

Seven guards forced Edward to stand and face the princess. The orange light spilled into the room, the color overflowing while the purple of twilight slowly started devouring it. The broken rays felt invasive as they bathed him in gold. His silhouette seemed almost otherworldly, like a golden statue contrasted against the rough and cold wall behind him.

The tall masked man awaited her, for resistance was futile.

"You seven will at least show him the respect he deserves and close your eyes," Rosalie commanded. Edward watched as the guards obeyed and shut their eyes firmly.

It seemed only she was to look at him.

A pair of hands slowly untied the laces at the back and Rosalie's lips settled into a thin line, afraid of what exactly she might witness. She expected him to try to shake off the hands several times, set on having the mask stay. But he stood there in defeat, his eyes trained on her with a look that said it all; despair, apprehension, _defeat._ He almost seemed like a dying animal, acceptant of its fate.

The heaviness of evening weighed him down, the warm season of summer was a distant memory. He was only cold—afraid of his sister's reaction. Victoria had tried to kill him, what would Rosalie do? Would she rid herself of him? He did not wish that rejection. And, before anything else, he realized the fear he felt was more of her rejecting him than her finding out.

The laces were now loose enough, and Rosalie took a final breath before the guard dragged the leather mask from his head, the material ceasing to cling to his skin.

It came undone.

The princess was not used to seeing flesh on the famous general. She did not really know what to expect at first. Normal skin was not it. Where were the scars? Where was that rotting flesh—that frightful image she had conjured up?

All she saw was a normal face.

But not normal.

His handsome features stood out to her. The hair had been pushed away from his face. She had never expected him to have a beard—for she had thought his skin too scarred.

And it was then that Rosalie realized who he resembled. The rosary previously clutched tightly in her hand fell to the floor, the cord that had held together the wooden pearls broke upon impact and they scattered in all directions. The wooden cross remained at her feet as the eyes of the princess widened while her mouth dropped with a tremble. Her brow furrowed as she started losing her breath.

A moment passed, but the relativity of time rendered that moment the likeness of hours upon hours where he was subjected to her infinite gaze.

"O-out," she finally managed to whisper.

The guards, ever faithful in obeying their orders, still had their eyes closed and did not understand what was happening.

"Out!" she yelled, and they swiftly turned around. Edward let out an involuntary sigh of relief as his arms were freed.

The door shut with a heavy thud that echoed through that now desolate room. The gold was gone, as light of day subsided.

Brother and sister watched each other in silence for a long while, for in that absence of sound, both found the only truth they needed.

"You…" Rosalie could not finish the sentence. Her voice cracked under the immensity of the situation. Her whole body was shaking as if winter had returned.

And, trapped under her gaze, stood a fearful Edward. A moment of uncertainty stretched between them, a moment he had hoped would never come.

He had hoped she would never lay eyes on his bare face.

He took a step back, wanting to get away from her. His mind reasoned that if he left that room, all would go back to normal.

As he started turning from her, Rosalie put up a hand. "N-no!" she whispered to him. Her voice was not strong enough to call out fully. She had not the energy for it. "Stay." It was she who begged now. "Please," she whispered. The three words were loaded with raw, powerful emotion.

And they stared at one another, brother and sister, afraid to move, afraid to speak.

Afraid to react.

And then, because there was nowhere else to go—nowhere else to hide, Edward walked up to her and let her touch him.

Her hand found his cheek. And when the princess realized he was real, that the man before her was no ghost, she broke down in tears. The floodgates opened, and Rosalie's sorrows poured out like the storm on a sea when she came to realize who the man before her was. Something snapped within her, a piece of her succumbing to the pain and the sorrow that had previously bubbled underneath the surface.

Edward had expected her to lash out, to reprimand him, or to have him taken away. But never thus. He did not think she would cry. For, indeed, despite all the hardships, despite all the pain in Wessport, Rosalie Fell had never cried, never shown her true weakness. Yet, now she let it all out for him to see.

The princess stepped closer to him, holding a firm grip, making sure he was still there, that he was still breathing. Her hands trailed over his features, to his long hair, to his eyes and lips. She made sure that his heart was still beating.

"Are you him?" she begged with a shaking voice, cracking from the tears. The need to know overpowered her. Rosalie had never had to know something so urgently as then.

Edward could not speak at first. He was afraid, he was scared. There was no chance to run away from those overbearing eyes. She knew despite knowing. His eyebrows knitted together further when he gave her a hesitant nod.

Rosalie did not know how to react. She stepped away from him with a shaking hand covering her trembling lips and turned to the rays of the sinking sun, watching the day die.

The mask lay on the floor, a thing so insignificant, so mundane now managed to twist the world of two individuals.

It took a long time before any of them could start to regain some footing—a notion of composure.

"What did she name you?" Her voice was calmer, but the thickness and hint of tears still laced it. Agony hid somewhere in its depths and it managed to pierce his heart enough for it to hurt him as well.

"William," he murmured out into the stillness. "William Fell."

In that very instant, as he said the last name he had been baptized with, Rosalie took a sharp breath and closed her eyes. Breathing, an action that otherwise came to easily to her, was hard for a second. She clutched the post of her bed and turned from him, ashamed to show her reaction, ashamed to even look at him.

Edward's heart skipped a few beats. He feared she cried because she did not wish for that situation. Hope sank in his chest faster than a Spanish galleon. He looked at the closed door, at the scattered wooden pearls—scattered like his own hopes and dreams.

But the moment passed where she recollected herself again, she dried away her tears.

Rosalie looked up at him and he expected more sadness and pain. But what he found was something else entirely.

Guilt, relief and, could it be? Happiness?

"You are _alive_." The first smile broke through the tears. A painful smile that grew sweeter the more her tears ran. "You have survived, William." She could not even begin to imagine the horror his life must have been. "I am sorry," she whispered. " _I am sorry_."

"You are not your sister—do not apologize in her stead."

He understood, then. That Rosalie was far from cross with him. "Is that why you would not reveal yourself to me?" Rosalie asked, trying to understand his course of action ever since stepping foot in Angloa. "Because you feared I would—" The princess stopped herself, not able to say the final words.

He hesitated before walking up to her. For the first time, Rosalie perceived him for what he was; _her younger brother_. She saw the uncertainty, the hidden fear. The mighty General Cullen had hidden _this_ all along: an unsure child who did not wish for the world to know of his existence.

"You are not her, Rosalie," he breathed. And they stood there on the cold floor as the moonlight started seeping in. Silver now replacing gold. It grew stronger while a million stars accompanied it in the sky. They let themselves fall silent and calm down slightly.

He did not know if a minute or an hour had passed. He just knew that they were there, with her eyes constantly trained on him. Rosalie tried to make sense of it, but however much she fought, she could not. "Why did you not reveal yourself long ago, Edward… William?"

The question he had feared.

Her brother looked at her with a semblance of guilt. "I will not remove the mask, Rosalie," he whispered. "I will not claim the crown."

"Why?"

"It is…complicated," he drifted away from her, growing anxious at every passing second. His sister looked confused. He expected her to react in anger, to lash out at him. But, instead, she took his gloved hand.

"Then explain it to me."

He had not expected her response. And Edward started speaking of his mother, Claudine and of Athar. The blue light of night slipped in. "The crown brought nothing but misery to my mother's life. It was what caused her demise," he finally whispered.

Rosalie's golden orbs caught the silver scars on his throat, going down to his chest. She placed her other hand over his and listened in silence. There was no judgment, no malice, no anguish or disappointment. She was there to listen to his sorrows, for him to unburden himself. For each word that he spoke, the weight lessened from his shoulders.

When he had finished, she let his life's story sink in. While there was still a part of her that did not understand why he turned away from his destiny, another part wanted him to be happy after so much anguish and suffering.

"Does that mask give you the freedom you seek?" she asked after a while. Her finger pointed at the floppy leather shell that was Edward Cullen.

"It is the only freedom I can permit myself. My likeness to our father has become my prison." The look that then plastered on his face spoke a thousand unsaid words.

"Is this the _only_ reason you do not wish to unmask?" she tried after a while. Rosalie knew there was more.

"I…I don't know," he answered truthfully. Edward Cullen who always had an answer for everything found himself lacking one now.

"What you and I have lived because of our bloodline is…horrible. But I think you are not being honest with yourself." Her voice was soothing, motherly.

Edward stood up heftily and walked to the balcony, wanting to escape her eyes. "What else is there to say. I am Edward Cullen, a commoner who rose from nothing, a man who will never find rest because I do everything that is asked of me. But at least I am my own man," he whispered out into the night. "If I ever claimed the crown, everyone would only compare me to my father." He turned to her. "And I could never live up to his name, Rosalie."

Rosalie walked over to him. The main reason for his fear presented itself. A reason he had ignored for long. How had Rosalie known? She saw the question stretch over his features.

"I hold the same fear—as I suspect Victoria does." She let her hand run along the iron rail of the balcony. "As I suspect Jasper and even Magnus did." Rosalie looked up at her brother with saddened eyes. "We will always be compared to father, that is the curse of our family," the princess whispered out into the night. She stifled a shiver as a gust of wind swept over them. Nature soothed the siblings with its cold embrace.

"But the crown is our duty, Edward. I have already taken it upon myself to embody what it should truly represent. But I am…lacking," she admitted. The princess gazed down, the eyelashes shadowing her cheeks.

"We all make mistakes," Edward murmured.

"To be royalty is difficult, a constant burden some say. But it is duty, a duty that I can bear," she turned to face him. "For I was born into it."

But she did not voice what she feared. Rosalie would never truly be able to carry the weight of its burden: of being a monarch—faced with so many difficult and critical decisions. But Rosalie knew she did not wish for her brother to experience the same difficult decisions she had.

"However," Rosalie said as she turned to him. "Most of my decisions have been erroneous while Edward Cullen has been the voice of reason. I want you to think about that for a second." Her voice had taken on a more authoritative note and he knew that it was the regent in her speaking, not his sister.

"I was never born into royalty like you. I was raised by a gypsy, traveling the world as a poor man, living the life of a soldier. I am not more fit for that crown than the next man. The blood running through my veins does not determine who I am, who I have become."

She nodded. "Yet you rose from the rank as a mere soldier, you command thousands of men ever loyal to you. Look at how far you have come with nothing. How can you be so blind to your own achievements, to the way the soldiers, officers, and lords respect you? It is a respect I could never begin to receive. I think it is the reason I suspected you were not who you said you were."

They glanced at the meadow stretching to Hayes and Raven's Grove. Edward shook his head. "I will fight this war with you, and I will help secure your claim to the throne."

"And what comes after? Will you settle down here, with Isabella and grow old—never being able to cast aside your mask?"

His lips settled in a thin line. "At least I will be by her side. And Angloa will find peace under your rule."

"We want the same thing for Angloa, do we not?"

"Yes." He could not help the smile break on his features. Rosalie was mesmerized by his face, by the uncanny likeness it truly held to their father.

"I could never force you to come as William Fell," she sighed. "But I would gladly give you my position if you ever chose to do so." Rosalie grabbed his hand which was resting on the railing.

"If you will not come forth as William Fell, help me rule Angloa as Edward Cullen," she begged. She had just been reunited with a long-lost brother. She would not even dream to start a discussion with him now. Not when she had gained something so precious. "Be useful," she teased, her lips parting and the drying tears on her cheeks glistening.

He rose an eyebrow and it sent her memories flying. A picture conjured in her mind of her late father, of the same expression. But Philip's features were much older, the luster in his hair gone. White streaks running through the once dark locks.

"Am I not useful now?" he teased back.

"You know you are."

Edward drummed his fingers against the rail for a moment. "I will always be by your side, Rosalie. You have my full support _as_ Cullen." He did not say it to her, but he was ashamed of his decision. Edward shied away from responsibilities and unloaded them on his sister. But he had given so much for Angloa already. He was not prepared to make that final sacrifice.

And, then, his sister held him in a hard embrace. Edward was at first surprised by the action. And then he rested his cheek against her golden hair as he embraced her back. His own blood accepted him, and he had never felt such relief in his life. Edward leaned against her, against the only tie left to his bloodline. Leaned against the only relative that would have him. He saw it in her eyes, in the bright sheen of her orbs: how she had rejoiced once she realized who he was. The man who hid beneath the mask was tied together with her and it seemed, without ever knowing who he truly was, she had still been drawn to him.

He soon left her, the mask once more hiding his features from the world. Rosalie thought it a shame that he could not openly display them for all to see.

Philip Fell's son, William, was alive. She realized then that he was also one of the most powerful men in Angloa. His mother had been a Valois, whose brother now sat on the throne of France. And no one knew.

Except she.

* * *

Isabella had been waiting outside the princess' chamber for hours with the guards. They would not tell her what had transpired. They would not breathe a word. The young woman paced to and from, growing ever more wary. Nicholas stood off to the side, saying prayers, hoping a tragedy had not unfolded. She took support against the wall, ignoring the nausea, the weakness in her limbs.

When the door opened, and the masked man stepped out, she bolted right to him with a frown present on her features. But he remained silent in the presence of the others. "It is alright, just a misunderstanding," he rasped. "Come," he took her hand, leading her away from the others. Nicholas saw Alan Moore in a corner suddenly and went to his friend.

"Do you know what transpired in there?" he asked him.

"I think she had him unmasked," Moore whispered shakily.

Nicholas' jaw dropped. But when he saw the relaxed back of Edward disappear around the corner, he guessed it had all ended well.

Edward did not speak until they were back in Isabella's quarters. He stood unmoving in the middle of her chamber for a long while, flexing and relaxing his muscles. He did not know where to start. For, indeed, where could he start?

"She knows, Isabella," he finally breathed. The young woman stared long and hard at the masked man, afraid to ask, afraid to hear. The stays dug into her ribs and it was hard to breathe. Was this the end? No, she would not let it end here. Not now.

"How… did she react?"

A faint smile broke through the black leather. He did not have to explain it to her. Edward was glad, yet he hid his shame, his own anger with himself. "She," he started, trying to find the right words. "She _accepted_ me," he finally said. "She listened to what I had to say." He hesitated. Edward wanted to be truthful with his wife, there would be no more lies between them; only the truth. "She wants me to take her place."

Isabella grew wary of those last words. "Will you?" If Edward took the crown it could separate them.

"No." He shook his head forcefully.

"You would give up your kingdom, your throne?" she breathed.

"Bearing the crown of my father is a great responsibility that I could never accomplish. I am not fit for it."

 _But you are,_ she thought. If anything, she knew he was the most optimal candidate for the challenge. Isabella was about to disagree when he put up a hand to stop her. "Rosalie has let me choose." He did not wish to think more of it. "I know I am being selfish against her…" he trailed off.

She went up to him slowly, masking her own worries and fears. Edward did not need to see them now. A sad smile spread her features instead.

"Now, more than ever, I wish to vanquish Victoria and place Rosalie on the throne. Because under her rule, we would be safe to live whatever lives we wish. She has given me the freedom to choose." He glanced at her and took a silken lock that rested against her shoulder. "And I choose you, Isabella; my life that I have with you." He brought it to his lips and kissed it, coming closer to her face. "Sweet Bella."

Their lips clashed. Both were taken by the moment, by their mixed emotions, heightened by the good news. But they ignored the underlying problems. Isabella ignored that Edward could never unmask. Edward ignored that he might have to live a prisoner of the mask for the rest of his life. It did not concern them at that time, not when they delighted in each other's flesh.

He brought her to the bed and slowly undressed her, taking her as she was, as she had been brought into the world. Edward made love to her slowly, appreciating every nook and cranny of her body, her ragged breath and whispered words of love sounded like music to his ears. Whenever they were in bed together, they drifted to another plane, they managed to connect in another way. Edward and Isabella were brought closer, merging together as one.

* * *

"How long has a friar like you known, Nicholas?" Rosalie asked with her back turned to him. She had brought him in as his presence had been announced by her chambers.

"Not as long as Her Royal Highness would think," Nicholas answered.

She turned to him. "I know you had them married, Nicholas." Her lips settled in a thin line. "It was the only thing Alan Moore would say."

The wooden cross remained on the floor amidst the splatter of the wooden rosary pearls. Her dark gown absorbed all the light from the wax candles in the room. Her silhouette stood out against the contrasting darkness.

"Why am I here, Your Royal Highness?"

Rosalie did not know the answer to that. She did not know what words to really offer.

"I need _someone_ to answer my questions," she confessed as she sat down on a stool.

"You have many doubts," Nicholas stated. "It does not surprise me. But I will not speak about things that wish to remain hidden."

"Nicholas, Edward explained the reasons why he cannot reveal himself to me. But there is more, isn't there?"

Nicholas stood there, wondering how best to break it to her. "It is complicated, Your Royal Highness."

"I have all the time in the world, Nicholas."

The chubby friar went to sit by her side. She sensed the sweet waft of honey and calmed down a bit more. "Edward Cullen can never reveal himself as William Fell."

"Why?"

"Because Edward Cullen has become an idealized man by the common folk. He is no longer just a man. Understand what they see in him. He is thought to be a commoner, a man who came from nothing and rose to grandeur. And he is a marked man, who got to be the right-hand man of a king and even the first queen of Angloa. If it is revealed that he was a prince all along, the spell is broken. The people will have felt tricked—as if he played some sick game on them, trying to benefit both from his blood but also from the reputation he gained with the mask. They would only see another bloodthirsty player vying for the crown. And they would have no sympathy for him."

The more Nicholas spoke, the more it made sense to Rosalie.

"Do you really think they would perceive it that way?" she asked.

"They believe he is one of them, Your Royal Highness. If they did not believe it at first, your sister would surely twist the situation to her advantage. We would lose either way. And do not get me started on the lords of this land. They are as fickle as they come. I find it hard to believe that they would just leave it all to come and join a prince they have never heard of before; a stranger to these lands in their eyes."

"And why can he not simply send Edward Cullen away and come as William Fell?" If William Fell appeared by her side, with her approval, it might be enough to unite the southern lords against her sister. He might be the final chip in the game.

"He would never do that," Nicholas sighed.

"Why?"

"Because it is a very known fact by now, even if they _try_ to hide it, that Edward Cullen and Isabella Swan are deeply in love. If Edward is sent away, William cannot be with Isabella. It would be suspicious."

"William… Edward could never give her up," Rosalie agreed. Her lips settled into a thin line. "Luck would have it that he loves like my father did; deeply and ever-lasting."

Nicholas could not hide the sad chuckle. "He is trapped by a prison of his own making, Your Royal Highness." His brown eyes gazed into hers and they grasped at her, the seriousness extending through the room. "Do not make him choose, Rosalie," he said with an ominous tone.

She did not know what to answer to that. Rosalie could only nod slowly.

 _August 10_ _th_ _– New London_

"Had I not come, would you have handed it over to her?" she demanded, sitting in the lavish room. The raised up space allowed her to tower over the others. To show that she was more elevated than them.

Lord Graham and Quinn kneeled as deeply as they could before the queen. Graham, the steward of New London, did not really know what to answer. They could have lasted months. But when winter finally came, it might have been a different tale. The fact was that he held little loyalty to Victoria. But she controlled other prominent lords within the city. His hands were tied.

"I would have held out, knowing they would eventually leave us," he tried.

"At least you would not commit the same stupidity of Lord Quinn here," she turned to the thoughtless and disgraced lord. Cardinal Thorpe was there, a small smirk plastered on his features as he watched the queen discipline her lords. "To practically hand over Adelton Hall to Rosalie. A fool would have had more tact," she growled.

Quinn bit his lip and held silent. Victoria didn't care if he had been willing to sacrifice his life for the crown. She only cared that he had not given it—that he had failed her. And she had disgraced him for it. He was cast away like a used toy. She had no want for him. The honor that had been so important to him was no more present in the eyes of Victoria. And Edward Cullen had known this would be the outcome. She had kept him waiting for an audience for weeks, out of mere spite.

"Be glad I do not skin you both alive," she spat to them. "Be glad I do not boil you alive—"

"Her Majesty has many vile plans she could think of for these undeserving subjects," Quinn interrupted. "But while you argue here with us, it still remains to be seen what you are to do about your sister."

A smirk stretched over Victoria's features as if she knew something they didn't. "You shall see in due time, my lords. We cannot take them with our forces right now, not when the southerners seem inclined to join her side. We must destroy my sister's forces from within, weaken her strength—those who _follow_ her."

Shivers went down their spines as they heard the queen speak with so little affection in her voice. But they were certain Victoria was not thinking of her sister when she spoke. Someone else seemed to come to mind.

Victoria dismissed them, and Cardinal Thorpe stayed behind. "Your Majesty may want to hold her tongue better, lest you make your advisors suspicious," he counseled.

"They need enough information to know that the outcome of the coming events will be of my doing," she smirked. Victoria turned to face Thorpe. "I never thought you so useful—to provide me with such good ideas. Stay by my side, Thorpe, and I shall make you the strongest man in Angloa," she lied. Once the war was over, she would slaughter him like so many others.

"I will not take the credit for this ingenious plan," Thorpe answered.

"But it was you who suggested it," she smirked.

Thorpe nodded slowly. He would have loved to see Cullen's ravaged face twist in pain as he lost the only thing he loved. The masked man had crossed an entire continent to find her, after all. The story had spread like wildfire. All knew of the deep and growing bond between Edward Cullen and Isabella Swan.

"Let us hope it will bear fruit," Thorpe said. He turned to her. "But you would be much better off if you targeted him as well. If Cullen was killed by one of your spies—"

"I will not kill him."

Thorpe squinted his small and beady eyes at her. "That man, together with your sister, are your weakness," he murmured to her in the desolate room.

"Do not speak nonsense, Thorpe. When the time comes, I shall deal with him."

But Thorpe shook his head slowly. "You are a good orator, Your Majesty. But we both know you have not the heart to kill him."

"What makes you think that?"

Thorpe walked up to her, the red robes of the cardinal the brightest item in the room. They were so invasively red that they clawed at her eyes.

"Because you love him."

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter down! Thank you so much for the reviews on the previous one. I hope you enjoyed reading this one as well.**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	15. Chapter 15

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 15_

 _August 15_ _th_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

Rosalie watched as Isabella kept reading the torn page, the flush spreading further down her throat. "I never knew you had access to so many books," Rosalie smiled as she walked up to her in the gardens. "I think this is the fifth I've seen you read this month."

"Time goes quicker when I read," Isabella said. Edward was away again. He had taken some forces to ward off a small approaching army from Coldwick. He had been gone for days, and she was left alone. Rosalie had not sought her out at first, but only because she did not really know what to say to the young woman.

"It is unfair…that we cannot hold him here, that we cannot protect him like he protects us," Rosalie murmured with a defeated look in her eyes after a while, sitting down next to Isabella on the stone bench. The flowers surrounding them swayed in the wind and their perfume stirred through the air.

"He would never let himself be detained thusly. I think it would wound his own pride," Isabella sighed.

"Yet, there are few things standing in the way for him to reach greatness," Rosalie started carefully.

Isabella closed the book and sneezed as its dust came into her airways. She ignored the burning sensation as it irritated her throat. "I will not interfere in this matter, Your Royal Highness," she said without being able to look the princess in the eye.

"I will not put you in such a position, Isabella. But I know you understand what he could become."

"He would lose the little freedom he ever had," she stated quietly. Her lips pressed together, afraid of what the future held for them.

"He was born for the crown. There is nothing more to be said."

Isabella looked at the closed book, knowing that Rosalie was right. She had not the heart to speak against her. She already knew too well the burden the princess was carrying. A hand came to hold hers. "Isabella, I would never _force_ him to be William. I would never drag him from you."

"What does Your Royal Highness wish out of all this?" Isabella asked after a while.

"I wish none of this had ever happened," she answered in a subdued voice. But as she continued, the passion broke through. It was almost as if Edward's unmasking had brought new life to her—new hope. "I wish my cousin were still alive, that Victoria and I could enjoy our walks in the gardens of Wessport. But it is futile. We find ourselves here, whether we want to or not." Isabella saw the determinedness in Rosalie's eyes. "If Edward will not step forth as he truly is, then I must carry on; with him as a mere general standing by my side."

A twinge of shame coursed through Isabella at not wanting the king to step forth. "He has been running his entire life, Your Royal Highness."

"I know, Isabella. I know," Rosalie whispered to her. "But maybe the time has come for him to stop. A day will come when he will realize that he should have cast aside the mask a long time ago. And it will be too late by then," she said ominously. "But I know that him stepping forth as William would mean that Edward had to leave."

Isabella nodded and looked at the folds of her dress. "I am sorry, Your Royal Highness," she whispered. The princess squeezed Isabella's hand, understanding why the young woman was apologizing.

"Do not worry yourself with this matter. Edward will always remain by your side, after this war you both will find the life you've always wanted." The words reassured her, and Isabella met Rosalie's eyes. The princess smiled and looked at the book.

"What is it about?" she asked. Isabella looked down at the worn tome and handed it to her.

"It tells the tale of a knight who sets out on a journey with his king and who never returns from that journey," she answered. Rosalie's fingers brushed the front of it. _La Chanson de Roland_ , it read in big lettering, expertly etched into the leather of the cover.

"It sounds tragic," Rosalie commented as she frowned. She opened the book and flipped some pages at the corners. The princess absentmindedly licked her finger every once in a while, to get a better grip on the parchment.

"On the contrary," Isabella grinned. "It is one of the better books I have read in a long time. Do you wish to read it?" she asked, motioning to the book. Rosalie hesitated before accepting it. Continued flipping the pages, her eyes gliding past the detailed letters.

"If it will keep me half as entertained as it does you, then I shall be glad to read it," Rosalie smiled. Isabella got up and curtsied. "I have many more books when you are finished. Let me know what you thought of it." Isabella left Rosalie alone and walked away, ignoring nausea and dizziness claiming her.

 _August 19th - Adelton Hall_

Simon Rajac looked at the note again as his hand trailed over the scar on his face. He could not stop reading it, not ever since they had gotten it. Edward Cullen sat by his side. Their endeavor had been a successful one, thanks to that note. He wondered what she must have done to get that piece of paper to them.

He felt the eyes of the masked man burrow through him and Rajac looked away. "We will save her, Rajac," Edward spoke calmly. He knew how he would react if it were Isabella.

"I cannot begin to imagine what hellish prison she must be putting up with there," he murmured. Amalia's handwriting was not the same neat one he was used to. It was rushed, and many words had been scribbled out as she tried to find better words to formulate her letter. He wondered what thoughts had gone through her mind as she wrote the words. There was no mention of him there, nothing telling them if she was well, if she was safe.

"Let it continue to occupy your mind and you will never find rest," the dark voice said. Rajac snapped at him with eyes of a viper.

"What do you kn—" He suddenly stopped himself. All knew what Edward Cullen had done to save Isabella Swan. He had ventured into the capital of the Ottoman Empire for her. The feared and masked general, The Lion of the North, had cast it all aside for her. If anyone could understand, it was him.

"Trust me, Rajac. Keep a clear mind and you will see the path you must take. You will refrain from doing anything foolish. Succumb to your fears and ire and it might cost Amalia her life," he warned.

They all remained silent on the remaining way to Adelton Hall. Coldwick was once more secure and now truly loyal to them after Victoria's forces had been chased away from their shores. And it was all thanks to Amalia Rajac. The secret was kept under lock and key. If it got out that she had leaked information that aided them, Victoria would surely make sure she suffered.

They returned fatigued and worn to Adelton as midday passed. Isabella was not there to receive him as per usual. He found her instead in the Palas, looking after some patients. More wounded stormed in and she helped her mother and Sofia as best as she could. Edward watched her from a distance, working while sweat ran down her temples. She would wipe it away, unaware of the green eyes looking at her.

"Isn't that General Cullen?" she suddenly heard some of the nurses whisper amongst them. Some of them were the maids of the castle and people she had known ever since when she lived there with him.

"Do you remember how he used to be?" the other whispered back.

"Aye. But I find him quite dashing now. In a strange sort of way," the woman giggled.

"Hush, that is only because of his deeds. If you were to lie with him, you'd regret it in an instant!" Isabella got up and heftily turned around, staring the maids down.

"You will cease this impertinent slander of my fiancé, or I shall have you thrown out of Adelton myself," she spat at them. The maids scurried away as color drained from their faces.

Edward walked up to her with a frown on his face, invisible to the rest. "Isabella, what's wrong?" he asked her. "That is unlike you." She turned to him, her face flustered.

"Forgive me, but my patience has reached a certain point. I cannot fathom how they can speak such nonsense when there are men lying here in great pain. One would think we are back at court!"

He remained silent, certain something else was bothering her. But she shook her head, a shy smile breaking through the ire.

"Forgive me," she brushed up against him as her features softened. "Welcome back."

Edward looked around at the pain and fatigue present in the Palas. The color seemed duller there as if the full brightness of summer could not push through. "This is the side of war they never speak of," he murmured as the nurses rushed past them, taking in the new wounded just arrived from Coldwick.

The couple looked in silence as shivering men where helped down on cots, blood seeping through bandages, some with libs cut off. "They speak of the heroic deeds, of the grand armies, of the brave men. And they idealize death too much," he muttered. "But they never speak of this. It is always something ignored."

Isabella turned to him. They had scarcely been fighting for months and, yet, the conflict was already taking its toll on them. She figured Edward suffered more, for he was cast back into the hellish nightmare that was war.

"Where is Rosalie?" he asked. He had to speak with her of Coldwick and Amalia Rajac. They had to think out their next move.

Isabella wiped her hands on her apron as she looked around in defeat. Sofia rushed from one side to another, trying to help as much as she could. Alice was aiding as well, caring for the lighter wounds. Friar Nicholas and Alan Moore were off in one corner, helping to carry the more badly hurt. Even Renée Swan was there, helping as much as she could. Mrs. Hammond, other castle maids—all pitched in as best as they could.

"In her chambers with Lord Athar and Glovendale, I should think," she said as she pointed to the vast arched entry. "Go to her, Edward. You have seen enough blood for one day," she told him with saddened eyes. Edward bit his teeth together. Isabella's innocence, her naiveté, had long since washed away and she had been bared to the ugly truth of the world. The look in her eyes seemed as ancient as he felt. He stroked her cheek absentmindedly with his thumb before leaving to see his sister.

Rosalie was sitting down speaking with Athar and Glovendale as he was let in. Lord Athar could not help but notice the change in the princess as the masked man entered. What he had thought as suspicion on her behalf before, had waned away and she seemed only happy to see him now.

There was little time for pleasantries. Edward sat down next to Athar and Glovendale, quickly speaking of the conflict with the ship. The people of Coldwick had assisted them. And they had received further information from one of the captured soldiers.

"Lord Durun is alive," Edward said after a moment's pause.

"Victoria did not have him executed?" Athar asked in wonderment.

"He escaped the city with some others to the north."

"Why has he not joined us?" Glovendale wondered as he pushed his hair out of his eyes and leaned back in the chair. "What does he hope to accomplish up north?"

"The English are back on our shores," Edward muttered, adding the bad news he had wanted to avoid.

Glovendale's fist impacted harshly with the table as he gritted his teeth. "Damn!" he spat into thin air.

"Then he is waging another fight up there?" Rosalie asked. She was pale for some reason, her fingers fidgety and her breaths shallow. The mere thought of the English being back must indeed have upset her.

"They must have seen our inner conflict as an opportunity to strike," Edward said as he voiced his opinion.

"This is not good," Athar murmured to himself.

"They have only sent a messenger over for now, most likely to confirm that we are indeed fighting amongst ourselves," Edward continued.

"Victoria has brought doom upon us," Glovendale whispered. He got a harsh glance from Edward across the table.

Athar put up a hand. "What Victoria has done, the deal she has struck with the English, it is not as big of a secret as you'd think, my friend. There have been rumors circulating ever since you left the capital."

"My sister's actions—" Rosalie continued with sorrow lacing her voice. "Could not be hidden forever," she breathed. Rosalie turned to Edward. "And would you have wanted it thus either way?" Rosalie imagined that Edward, her brother, out of all people, would want the world to see Victoria for what she truly was.

"What she has done—the crimes she has committed are indeed atrocious," he agreed. "But I think it best if we do not circulate any rumors. We should leave this until we have her standing before a trial and can question her in the presence of a judge," he stated. Rosalie's brow furrowed in confusion and Edward leaned toward her to explain. "She is still your sister, Your Royal Highness, and we should still respect her as such."

Her mouth would have dropped if she did not control herself so. The lengths Edward would go to protect his own blood was almost foolish, Rosalie found. Edward knew much of what Victoria had done, what she had done to him and the consequences her actions had brought him. Victoria had separated William from Leonore, after all.

She nodded absentmindedly in the dimly lit room. The stone walls cooled it down against the pressing summer heat enough so that they might not be bothered by it. A window was still open, letting the birdsong rush through. In any other circumstance, she would have welcomed the sweet tune. But it only sounded hollow to her now.

A bead of sweat tumbled down her temple. Apparently, despite the coolness of the room, Rosalie was still affected by the warmth outside.

"We should send an envoy up north, someone that can inform us of the situation with the English," she murmured.

"If they attack, there is a choice to be made," Glovendale commented. "Between fighting your sister or the English."

"If the English attack we fend them off first," Rosalie said heatedly. "I would die before having them retake this island again. We declared ourselves free from them centuries ago. I will have it remain that way. I fight against the English first—I'd rather have my sister, a trueborn Angloan, on the throne than them."

Athar smacked the arms of his chair as he leaned back in it. "Then we have arrived at a conclusion," he noted. "There is still the matter of uniting the south. Coldwick helped us when Victoria's ships attacked. I think the whole region is set on aiding us if we went to them."

"What about Cantabria and the rest of the south?" Edward asked.

"Cantabria joins me," Athar said.

"If we truly wish to go up against Victoria, we need a bigger army. Ten thousand or more," Glovendale intercepted. "We're barely a fifth of that."

They all nodded in unison. "I think we need to summon the assembly again," Athar stated. "We need the southern lords to help us in this matter."

They all agreed, and plans were soon made for the assembly to reunite.

* * *

Victoria stared at the lesser man in disgust. Lord Quinn was a pathetic fool and she would have the whole of New London know it.

She wanted to get away from them all, especially from Thorpe. The further away he was from her, the better. She knew he was a scheming bastard and did not wish him in Wessport or New London, where he'd have much more power.

Launël had been tasked with surveilling him in New London while she occupied her mind with other matters. She hoped her sister would be stopped if she ever decided to retake the city.

What irritated her most, however, were the words Thorpe had spoken to her. So carelessly, so tactlessly.

There was no possible way that she was in love with Edward Cullen. Victoria's teeth gritted as she started pacing around her room in an irritated manner. Lady Savoie, who followed her everywhere, looked at her queen with a furrowing brow.

"Your Majesty?" she asked as she put aside the needlework. "Is something amiss?"

Victoria ignored her as her hands clenched into fists. She paced some more, the steam not evaporating. "Irritation, my dear, irritation," she hissed. Monica Savoie took a step back in hesitation.

"Irritation at whom?" she asked carefully.

Victoria turned to her, her features softening as she saw her lady-in-waiting grow nervous. Even among her own, she inspired fear. It pleased the heartless queen immensely.

"Edward Cullen and Isabella Swan," she growled.

It was no secret to many that Victoria Fell fancied the imposing general. Monica was not surprised now that the queen had started to grow a resentment toward the woman that he so obviously loved. She had been there when Isabella Swan had outwitted Victoria in her own throne room. Monica did not much like Isabella Swan either. There was something about the young woman which nagged at her. Monica knew both she and Victoria had much more than Isabella could ever dream of. Yet, they could not stop thinking ill of her.

"Your dislike for Cullen eludes me, Your Majesty. But I fully understand the distaste for young Lady Swan. A most unagreeable woman with little charm and wit to her name."

Victoria sat down and drummed her fingernails against the hard wood of her chair. She muttered something. Monica could hear Thorpe's name being cursed. "…should have done it swifter," she murmured under her breath.

"Your Majesty," Monica cooed as she came to sit next to her queen. "When the war is won, take delight in knowing that Isabella Swan will have lost it all as you emerge as victor," she smiled. "She will find herself in a state worse than when her father was beheaded. She will be utterly alone as Cullen is separated from her."

"Monica, dear," Victoria purred with a silky voice, her eyes glinting dangerously. There was something mad about them, something lurking beneath the always composed surface. Monica's heart skipped a beat as she saw the madness creeping up, the true colors of Victoria Fell. "Do you really think I'd leave Isabella Swan be after the war?" she hesitated. "If she survives, of course." Her lips curled in a satisfied grin.

"Your Majesty," Monica began carefully." I… do not understand."

The viper's eyes turned her way, full of malice. "There is nothing to understand, dear."

Monica wondered what would become of Isabella Swan. And, even if Victoria's reaction had been frightening at first, Monica herself found satisfaction in knowing that the prude young woman would most likely suffer immensely as time dragged on. However, she wondered with the utmost curiosity about what would become of the masked general. She wondered how long Victoria would keep him in her bed before she grew tired of him.

* * *

Durun wiped the sweat off his brow and stared at the shoreline in defeat. The ships had been there for weeks, no progress had been made. He looked back at his forces, a growing army who had turned tan under the intense Angloan sun. Summer had come to the north around the time he had fled Wessport.

Durun was out of his element. He was not of the north, he did not know how to move in these circles. And it was a land that had once been loyal to the Triennes', Rebecca Fell's family. They were all extinguished by intrigue or feudal conflicts. The only one left was Jack Trienne, the second cousin of Rebecca Fell. Durun found it strange that he had decided to join them. But much like Jasper had regretted his mother's behavior and his father's oppression of Angloa, it seemed too that Jack was set on clearing his name once and for all. The once proud house of Trienne now rested on him to reach its former glory and obtain redemption.

"They will attack at some point, my lord, and in greater numbers," Jack said, standing by his side.

"They will stay away for now. As long as they see us here, they will not move." He turned to the younger man. "But if Victoria sends her forces to attack us, the English will see it as a chance. They are waiting to strike."

Jack stared at the ships in defeat. They had held the invader off so far, but it would not last.

The northern coast of Angloa danced a violent waltz as the wind ripped into it. Seagulls could barely fly a straight line, torn from their course on several occasions. Summer was harsher here.

In the distance, the ruins of Castell crumbled. Durun looked at them with disdain.

"Edward Cullen is fighting alongside Rosalie Fell with Lord Athar and Fawkes. Can we not warn them of the impending threat? Would they not come then?" another man asked as he neared. He was one of the officers, a marshal.

Durun shook his head. "They have enough on their plate as it is—"

"They had reclaimed Adelton Hall, last I heard. Cadherra is practically theirs." Durun could almost hear hope in the voice of his officers. His back was still turned at them as he gazed over the northern sea.

"They almost took New London. Rosalie is striking from the south," Jack continued. "Why can we not give Victoria a hard strike from the north?"

"If we leave to attack her it will open up the north for the English. We are stuck here, gentlemen," Durun said as he turned to face them. "Believe me," he started as he saw their disappointed faces. "I would like nothing more than to join forces with Rosalie and fight alongside Cullen, but we must remain here. We are the only thing securing the north as it is."

"And what happens if Rosalie's forces are taken down?" the marshal wondered.

Durun turned to look at the four men, more listening as he struggled to find the correct words. "Then we fight until our last breath," he growled through his teeth. "I will not surrender to a traitor like Victoria."

They all stared at him for a while, the wind dragging at their clothes, the summer friskier here. But, slowly, they started nodding in unison.

Durun had an army of four thousand loyal to him and to his cause. And he had made it clear why they could not leave their post. And they accepted that. But every night, huddled close to the campfire as the chill swept over them, they would relay any news brought from the south. Many spoke of Lord Fawkes and General Cullen. Many wanted to join them. Many had fought with Edward during the war and wanted to fight alongside him again.

There was hope in their eyes. Rosalie did probably not understand the amount of support she held in the north. And, it seemed, neither did Victoria.

 _August 21_ _st_ _– Adelton Hall_

Isabella cleared her throat as she walked through the gardens with her mother by her side. In front of them walked Edward and Rosalie. The princess took every moment she could to spend with her brother.

They would talk for hours about all and nothing. It was as if the siblings were trying to catch up on all the time they had lost. Rosalie took a quick liking to Edward and started seeing him in another light. Edward's demeanor would soften in her presence, just as it did in Isabella's. He relaxed more and felt more at ease with her.

Rosalie would ask him quite a lot about his childhood. Even though he did not reveal much in the beginning, he started opening up to her. He would, in turn, ask her about her own. And Rosalie revealed her years of youth to him, told him how much Victoria had helped her and that it was one of the reasons that she loved her sister so much.

That cold morning, Rosalie held onto Edward as she was hesitating in her step. Isabella had to stop for a moment as a piercing pain shot through her head. Migraines had started creeping up on her as of late and this morning it had been particularly uneasy. Some slight nausea had started affecting her during the mornings as well.

Her mother took hold of her. "Is it a headache again?" Renée asked. Isabella nodded. "You should go to Sofia," she urged her daughter. But Isabella brushed it off. Renée took hold of her daughter and turned her to face her. "I had similar symptoms as you are experiencing now, you know?"

"It is a summer cold, mother," Isabella said, clearing her voice.

But Renée shook her head. "I had the same symptoms when I was carrying you," she clarified. And just as she had spoken, a coughing fit shook through Isabella, her face a shade paler.

Just as Isabella had recovered, they both turned their heads at the shout of some guards rushing to them. Isabella furrowed her brow as her vision blurred, nausea stronger.

In the blur of her vision, she saw how Rosalie had fallen into a heap in Edward's arms.

Her body grew weak until she herself haplessly tumbled to the ground.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for your wonderful reviews!**

 **I just really want you all to read the latest chapters I've been working on now... they're soooo intense and I love it. I am trying to tone down the cliffhangers but man...it is so hard. Just rest assured with the knowledge that once this fic is finished, you will not have to suffer my horrible cliffies anymore! I had the urge to procrastinate and go back and do touch-ups (because this fic is in some serious need of a face-lift in some areas.)**

 **I went back to Secrets of the Court and it is strange to see how much my writing has changed (not improved, just changed) from one story to the next. But this is a big project for sure. Isn't it strange that in 9 days (August 30th) it will have been _two years!_ since Secrets was published?! TWO YEARS! GAAHHH. This took longer than I expected. I never thought I'd have so many of you actually reading this. I am just glad this story got you as readers! :D**

 **So thank you all who read, review, follow and favorited not just this story, but all three. And for those of you who have been with me since Secrets...man, that is strong of you. I would not have been able to be as patient. But the finish line is in sight, people!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	16. Chapter 16

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 16_

 _August 21_ _st_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall  
_

"She is too pale, why is she so pale?" a frantic voice hovered above her. It was distant as if she was in some sort of tunnel. Isabella did not recognize the voice.

"…out for hours, we need to be patient," she heard someone else say. The young woman wanted her eyes to open, but they did not obey. Her body was chained down, would not listen to her commands. A hand took hers; _that_ she could feel. It squeezed hers tenderly. It was gloved.

Edward.

He was there, it would all be okay.

Someone leaned in and a pair of lips brushed against her cheek. "Come back to me, Bella," they whispered. She wanted to scream out to him, tell him that she was there. But her body still remained locked in limbo.

A horrible sensation claimed her. She felt stretched out somehow; like she was not supposed to be this way. Something had been eating away at her and Isabella started understanding that the dizzy spells, the coughs, and nausea could not be due to any pregnancy. Was she sick?

Edward stared down at the pale, sleeping form, holding her hand, never letting go. Renée fiddled with her hands, sitting next to her daughter. Alice was the most frantic of them all. Mrs. Hammond was not too calm either. She kept fussing around until Edward finally ordered her to take a seat or go somewhere else.

This could not happen, not now. He looked at the blue lips, biting back the anger. Isabella had foreseen this. She had feared this—whenever they got their moment of happiness, something horrible struck them.

His and Lady Renée's eyes crossed one brief moment. He had never seen the mother so torn. Her lips quivered as she brushed her daughter's hair back. "My sweet child," she whispered, a tear escaping her, trailing down her cheek.

Edward was powerless to do anything. He could command armies, fight a hundred battles and win. Yet, he could do nothing as Isabella and Rosalie had both tumbled in the gardens.

They had all been too worried over the war with Victoria and the English to ever notice both women deteriorating.

Alas, if Isabella's condition was critical, Rosalie's was much worse. Sofia had been inside the princess' chamber with Lord Athar, Saxton, Glovendale and Fawkes for almost two hours. A physician had been sent for from Coldwick, but the ride over was a few hours long at least.

A knock sounded on the door. All jumped in their seats. Mrs. Hammond pushed her cap down over the gray tresses in their neat bun. She opened the door as the Spanish gypsy walked in with little ceremony. Her features bore a somber look. The sleeves were pushed back to reveal thin forearms. She walked over to Isabella without a word. When Renée was about to protest, wanting to know what she was to do with her daughter, Edward went over to her.

"Sofia knows what she is doing, my lady," he murmured into her ear as he supported her shoulders. But Renée would still not let go of her child.

"I will not have God take her from me as well," she stated in a shaking voice. Alice kept walking around the room with her face cast down, her features contorted in worry and fear.

Sofia re-examined the young woman. She had not found anything the first time. Isabella appeared to have encountered a simple fainting spell due to the late summer heat. They believed the same for Rosalie. But when the hours passed and neither woke up, the Spaniard suspected something was aloof.

Her breath was shallow and when she forced her eyelids back she saw that the pupils were dilated. Cold sweat and blue lips—just like Rosalie's. However, Isabella's symptoms appeared to be milder.

Sofia looked at Edward for a brief moment. She did not wish to utter the cause so openly. He took her out of the stuffy room, standing in the hallway, an endless corridor that grew claustrophobic the longer he stood there waiting for her to speak.

"Poison," she said as soon as the door was closed behind them. The word echoed in the desolate hallway.

His lungs could not get enough air and everything pressed hard against his body, as if the very air tried to squish him. Edward stumbled, and Sofia reached out to support him. His hands pressed into a fist and he started shaking.

"Can you help them?" Something in the way he had spoken bore down hard on her. The pain and fear were evident in the tone of his voice, in the lack of luster in his eyes.

Both his wife and sister must have received the same poison. Sofia stared at him in defeat.

"Isabella seems to have received a lighter dosage…but over a longer period of time. However, Rosalie's condition is much worse. It…might, in the worst case, weaken her for life if we do not find a cure quickly." She could not even meet his eyes at that point.

"Have you told Athar?"

"The physician is looking on Her Royal Highness as we speak. I feel it best to wait until he arrives at the same conclusion."

Frantically he turned from her, the broad expanse of his back rigid and tense as he fought to find some footing in his current situation. "And an antidote? Have you started to work on it?"

A small sigh escaped her, a look of defeat washed over her eyes. "I do not even know the poison that was administered, how long and in which form. I cannot even begin to treat either of them before having at least that information. If we want to save them, we need to find out who poisoned them."

His fist found the stone-cold wall before he could stop it. Edward shook with more anger and when Sofia was about to comfort him, all she received was the stare of a frenzied devil. Edward knew who was behind this. There was no doubt who had committed such a sin.

He took two deep breaths, trying to regain some composure, not wanting to alarm the women waiting for him. The masked man walked into the room once more, staring at Isabella's petite form, engulfed by the blankets of her bed. He could not let her slip away like this. Edward would not let her leave him now.

Renée was still crying over her daughter's resting form when he walked over to her. It hurt his whole being at seeing the mother so destroyed, so distraught. And Renée perceived something in his eyes, something that unsettled her, yet tied her down.

She took his gloved hand in hers, the first time Renée had willingly touched her son in law. A sad smile managed to spread across her face. Because Renée knew how much he loved her daughter.

"Please, save her," she begged, squeezing his hand. The green orbs held steadfast on her and Renée saw the inner workings of his brain. The masked general wanted nothing more than to obey. He nodded. Mrs. Hammond and Alice stared at the strange scene.

Edward Cullen then leaned toward Isabella and his lips kissed her forehead as carefully as possible. It was bizarre, seeing such an imposing man being so loving and gentle.

Athar didn't know what to do. The physician had been examining the princess for the better part of an hour. Maybe he was afraid of saying something? The gypsy had left with her mouth shut.

"Could it be a sickness? Lady Isabella has similar symptoms, from what I hear," Glovendale leaned over and whispered in his ear. The ambassador frowned as he stared at the crumbling form of the princess. It was hard for her to breathe. Whenever she stopped breathing, they all collectively held their breath, until her lungs found air once more.

"Then why are not more of us presenting the same symptoms?" Fawkes wondered. Saxton was deathly quiet, sitting by the princess' bedside, holding her hand in his.

Athar remained silent as well, his face ashen with worry. His lips were dry and parted, his white shirt wrinkled, the sweat stains under his arms growing and reeking. He had been loyal to Philip Fell for decades and had vowed to care for his offspring. One daughter was already dead because he had been careless. Would another succumb to death now as well? He could not let that happen.

A knock sounded on the door and none went to open it. Whoever it was could wait. They were not collected enough to receive anyone.

But the door was pushed open by none other than Edward Cullen. He had discarded the black doublet and stood in a white shirt with a dark-brown jerkin over it. He stepped inside with little ceremony.

The room was dark and stuffy, little air and light filtered in through the bolted windows of the castle. Wax candles lined the walls and flat surfaces, provoking a stifling heat. Rosalie lay like a small doll in a bed which was too big for her. By her side, on a stool, sat Emmett Saxton, holding her hand in a way that was too familiar. On the other side of the bed, was the physician, still examining her.

Athar, Fawkes, and Glovendale stood off in the corner. They appeared as old ghosts, the wrinkles more prevalent on their features. They looked ancient, too ancient for comfort. The flickering light cast eerie shadows on their faces. Glovendale pushed aside the ruby-red tunic and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt.

The masked general walked into that room with the sole purpose of seeing his sister. Sofia was in tow but kept her distance. She knew her place as a lowly gypsy—fine folk occupied that room and she would not intrude with her mere presence.

But, as she lingered in the open doorway, Theodore Glovendale went over to her, urging the old woman to enter as kindly as he could. The silver streaks in her hair caught the golden light of the candles, making it, in turn, transform into a strange gold hue itself.

Edward walked toward the bed, afraid of what he might find. Sofia had said that Rosalie was worse off than Isabella. How could fate be so cruel? How could he and Rosalie just have found each other for this to now transpire?

When he pushed past the frightened physician from Coldwick, he saw the pain in Saxton's eyes as he held the hand tightly in his own—never wanting to let go. There was something there he had not noticed before. There was something which had grown secretly between Saxton and Rosalie which had never shown until now. His eyes were gentle as he looked down at her, agony and fright not too far behind.

Edward stared at his sister, the small form engulfed by the bed in which she lay. Her face was sunken-in and ashen. Her lips had the same blue hue as Isabella's. But her breathing was very shallow and there were trails of blood that had dripped out of her nose. He wafted a glove, not caring if the others saw. Edward took her hand in his and was shocked at how cold it was—too cold.

The physician turned from the bed to the three lords. "She presents strange symptoms—symptoms which I have never seen in any sickness before," he started, but unable to finish that sentence.

Athar stepped forth, worry prevalent on his features. "What does that mean?" He sounded like a worried father.

"It means, or at least what I think it means, is that her ailment is not a natural one. I would have to look at Lady Isabella to arrive at the same conclusion, however." His words weighed deep and cut through the room like a sharp blade. He croaked like an old man and it irritated Saxton, somehow. It irritated Edward too.

"Señora, did you arrive at the same conclusion?" Glovendale asked Sofia as kindly as he could. She nodded.

"But what does it mean that her ailment is not a natural one?" Fawkes could still not understand.

None wanted to explain it to him until the gypsy turned with her raven eyes and steadfast gaze. "It means her ailment was administered to her and to Lady Isabella," she said with the Spanish accent, flowing like honey from her lips. When Sofia said it, it did not sound as severe.

"They were poisoned?" Fawkes growled, indignant yet surprised as his eyes bulged out of their sockets. The words boomed from his chest. "But then we must find an antidote—are you not familiar with these sorts of things?" He walked over to the old woman, the plea not quite leaving his voice.

"If I am to make an antidote, it would take time—I do not even know the poison that was administered."

"But we know who ordered this." Edward's voice was lower than Fawkes, and it reverberated through the room like a tempest—as if God himself was ready to strike down.

"Victoria is many things, but would she really kill her sister?" Athar would never believe that the queen was capable of such a feat.

It was Saxton's turn to speak. A rogue tear had escaped down his cheek and into his dark beard. Raw hatred coursed through his veins, hatred, and thirst for blood. "She killed her own cousin, and someone much closer blood-wise. This should not surprise any of you!"

"Maybe her intention was never to poison Rosalie," Glovendale said, pushing through the tension.

"You were a prisoner at her court, you were tortured by her command. And now you defend her?" Saxton asked, baffled.

"We should send an envoy to find out what is really going on," Glovendale responded.

"She would deny any charges against her," Fawkes joined in.

"But if she truly loves her sister, and she never meant to poison her, then she would hold the antidote in her possession." Sofia stepped forth now.

"She has a point." Athar felt new hope grow within him.

"But she meant to poison someone," Edward cut them short. He brought them back to reality. There was no other reason—Victoria must have gone through great trouble to send a spy and have them administer poison to Rosalie and Isabella in some form. "Isabella Swan must have been her original culprit."

"Or it was Rosalie Fell and Isabella got in the way," Glovendale muttered.

Sofie put her hands up, shushing the men in the room with a mere gesture. Her raven eyes bore deep into their souls, unsettling most there present. When she spoke, her voice was severe, raspy. "If we know what both have eaten, where they have gone, what they have been drinking—we will know where the poison stems from."

"Would that be enough to make an antidote?" Athar asked.

Sofia was about to respond when Rosalie started shaking violently. Her breath had stopped, and Saxton gave out a shout of fear and surprise. Sofia rushed over and turned the princess to her side so that she would not swallow her tongue. Her golden tresses fell into her eyes as she shook, and her mouth foamed. They all watched in tense silence as the episode drew to its end.

Edward realized then that Rosalie was much worse off than Isabella.

They sat in stunned silence, feeling as time ticked by, as the sand ran out of the hourglass. There was a decision to be made, and soon.

 _August 22_ _nd_ _– Adelton Hall_

Glovendale wanted to send an envoy to Wessport to question Victoria. But the others thought it was sending a man to his imminent death. She would deny any accusations and keep the messenger there, not letting him leave. Few men would take on such a mission.

Sofia had argued that they needed to investigate what both women had been consuming for the past few months and weeks. If she knew the origin of the poison, she would be able to help them. But she argued that the longer they waited, the worse off they would become.

They sat under the bare sky, with the sun taunting them and nature squandering them with its brilliant life. How could their surroundings be so joyful when they faced such a dire situation?

Edward was stunned, although he hid it well. How could Victoria be so heartless? She was many things, and had committed many sins—but poisoning her own sister? Victoria Fell had been adamant that she loved Rosalie to a fault. Her words did not seem truthful now, only empty blabber.

Edward had finally settled on a plan of action, a plan that did not require too drastic diplomatic actions at this point.

"Emmett, you will start going over the princess' daily routine and I will do the same with Isabella's. We shall find out whatever poisoned them and save them from this wretched fate," he growled.

Emmett perched up and nodded sternly back at him.

"So that is our plan then?" Fawkes wondered. "To wait calmly for you to investigate what these women have been up to for the past few weeks? We should be raising an army on attack Victoria where it hurts. We all know she is behind this—"

"You act without thinking, Anthony!" Athar uttered in irritation as he turned to his friend. "This is always what you do! Can you not see that is exactly what Victoria would be expecting?" Athar leaned in closer to his old friend. "Cullen might be younger and more inexperienced than you, but right now, despite the possibility of losing his fiancée, _he_ is thinking with a clear head! You should learn from him!" Athar hissed in a low whisper. It was only for Fawkes' ears and the old general got flustered at such words, but he held his tongue.

"Don't push it, Thomas," he muttered under his breath, suppressing the flush.

"Tell me, Fawkes, who we could send to Victoria. Who has enough experience in diplomacy to state such a question and not cause offense? Who would be able to handle this situation? And if there is such a skilled person here, would he honestly go?"

Fawkes remained quiet with his fist clenched. "I would go!" he burst out. Fawkes looked at the ground as his rapid pulse settled, as he took in the pained expression in Edward, Saxton and Athar's eyes. He settled back, Fawkes' lips pressing together firmly. "I will go," he murmured. "But I know you will not let me."

"If we could, we would allow it, old friend," Athar said as he patted Fawkes on his shoulder. "But five minutes after barging into Wessport she'd have your head on a spike."

There was little left to speak of. Who would want to confront Victoria?

Renée held her daughter's hands in hers, listening to the shallow breaths as Isabella struggled to breathe. She willed the young woman to fight for her life. She had gained lucidity at some point but had no strength to speak.

Sleep now took over.

Mrs. Hammond and Alice had not left the room either. Even Nicholas had stopped by to pray with them for Isabella's life.

It was hard to describe the general air in Isabella's chambers. It was downtrodden, aching and melancholy. The three women would change stations every few hours. While someone sat at the bed, another would rest while a third would care for the resting.

Renée wondered what Edward could do. She had never felt so hopeless as then. She wanted to cradle Isabella and never have any harm befall her ever again. She brushed her thumb across the pale cheek, looking at the angelic features. At least Isabella seemed at peace in her rest.

A hand found her shoulder. "My lady, it is time to switch places," came Mrs. Hammond's motherly voice in her ear. But Renée shook her head.

"Just a little longer," she begged.

Mrs. Hammond would have none of it. "You have been by her side for more than twelve hours with no food or water. I shall have George the Chamberlain send for some footmen to coax you to your own bed if you do not care for yourself."

"She is right, my lady. You need your own strength so that you may be there for Isabella," Alice concurred.

Renée held her daughter's hand, not wanting to let go. Sofia had stopped by earlier, telling her that, sometimes, the deeply resting people might hear those speaking around them through the fog of sleep.

"May I have a moment alone with her?" Renée asked.

Mrs. Hammond and Alice were out of the door as quickly as she had spoken the words.

She turned back to Isabella, to the sleeping form. "You cannot go to your father, not yet," she lamented as she tried to hold back the tears. Renée looked at the opened window, at the sky beyond the woods under Isabella's room.

"Do not take her from me," she pleaded in a silent whisper. It left her body, carrying with it her will, her essence, her _soul_. Renée felt sucked dry by the strange breeze that passed through the room. An eerie premonition shook it as if she was sensing something horrible to come. It rocked through her whole body.

The feeling left her as quickly as it had come.

The door opened, and she heard heavy footsteps enter. The scent of pinewood pressed through and claimed the faint whiff of lilies.

Edward Cullen went to the other side of the bed and kneeled next to her daughter. She had seen him display such tender affection to her before. Alas, it was always equally strange to see Edward bare himself thus before Isabella. It was as if he became another man with her.

"Any progress?" Renée wondered, desperate.

He did not dare face her and tell her no. Edward never looked up as he squared his jaw. How could he meet her look? He knew it would weigh him down. He shook his head slowly and tediously.

"…do we know why she is this way?" Renée wondered, her words strangely thick. After another moment of stiff silence, she flared up in irritation. "I am not a fool, Cullen. I know why there is such secrecy. This is no normal ailment," she gritted through her teeth as tears started spilling. "Tell me whatever you have to tell me, but tell me the truth!" she exclaimed.

It was enough to get him to look at her. Renée could have sworn she saw his eyes glazed over as if he was fighting back tears. But she could not be sure, not when the mask shadowed most of those enigmatic eyes.

"She has been poisoned and if we do not find an antidote soon, she might not make it," he answered brusquely. His voice had grown low and as it rumbled through his chest, he fought hard for it not to break. He could not understand the gravity of the words that he spoke.

"But…" And neither could Renée. "She will be fine," she trailed off, strangely distant then. Her mind had not processed the significance of that sentence. He looked up at her and saw that she was reaching her breaking point. Renée had lost much, had gone through too much. He did not wish for this to send her over the edge.

But Edward could not comfort her. Not when he could not comprehend what was happening himself.

"D-do we know _who_ is responsible for this?" came a soft whisper from across the bed. Renée's eyes had watered, and her voice grew thick. "Who could do such a thing?" she cried as the tears started falling freely and the gravity hit her like a brick wall. The sobs grew stronger and stronger. "Who?" she begged him.

"The same woman who poisoned you, most likely." At those words, Renée buried her face in the linens of the bed and sobbed freely, the sound so heart-wrenching that Edward did not know what to do. He was witnessing a helpless mother, staring the imminent death of her child right in the face.

And while Isabella lay there, deteriorating at a slow and excruciating rate, Rosalie's life was slipping away much faster. Sofia had whispered to him that the princess did not even have a fortnight left at this pace.

 _August 31_ _st_ _– Adelton Hall_

The whole of Adelton Hall had never been so gloomy, not even since the death of Charles Swan. But it was depressing to see the sulking faces of ghosts stalking the corridors.

Athar had barely slept while trying to come up with a plan. Edward was too tired mentally to be of any further help. The masked man had tried to find a solution until he himself reached a state of too heavy fatigue and unrest.

They had gathered once more, realizing that there was only one option left—to send someone amongst them to Victoria.

"I think I am the clearest option," Glovendale spoke softly to the other lords. The southern lords had gathered with them. Some from the surroundings of Coldwick had traveled to pay their respects to the princess' health.

"Why?" Lord Wilson asked stupidly.

"Because Edward is loathed by the queen after he took Her Royal Highness, Lady Renée and Lady Isabella from Wessport. He showed his back to Victoria. General Fawkes, although I suspect he would indeed mean well, would not last five minutes before risking his head on the gallows for his fiery temper. I am certain General Cullen and Lord Saxton would no doubt lash out as well. As for Lord Athar, he instigated this rebellion when Victoria stole the throne from Jasper. She would kill him on the spot. That only leaves me," Glovendale spat. He was offended that Wilson had not seen it earlier.

"If you leave, cousin, she might not let you come back. You might lose your life in the capital as well," Athar said stiffly. His gray eyes looked across the dark and stuffy room. Some light filtered through and caused the trapped dust to dance its somber dance. All dressed in dark and depressing tones. Thus they reflected their state of mind.

"It is a chance I am willing to take," Glovendale stated. "If I can save both Her Royal Highness and Lady Isabella by doing this, then I will be at peace with whatever comes my way."

Most of them wanted to burst out that Theodor should not leave, that he should stay. Let someone else do the job—someone expandable. But who among them was expendable? No one. It was left to the great ambassador, a man of many words, a true diplomat, to leave for the capital.

They all realized Theodor might leave for his doom. And there was nothing they could do to stop it. None knew what might happen when he asked the queen if she had been responsible for the poisonings.

Theodor had sent her a letter more than a week ago. They never expected she might answer it and, so, he was preparing for his trip.

It was late afternoon when his coach stood ready and his bags were made. Theodor Glovendale had said his goodbyes to his cousin and to his many new friends of Adelton and Cadherra. He was about to leave when, through the gates and under threats from the guards, came a man riding with sweat pearling down his temples.

His horse fell to the ground as soon as he stopped it and he looked around in absolute fear until his eyes found the group standing off to the side. They fixed on Glovendale and Athar, but they glanced past Edward as well. They did not wish to look too long on the eerie man; the one who bore no face.

He received threats from the guards, shouts that he was to identify himself. When Edward caught sight of the golden Pegasus upon a field of pure white, the crest of the Fell house, he understood that the man was a messenger sent there from Victoria. He unsheathed his sword and walked up to him, pointing it right to the man's face.

"You will state your name and your business here, lest I strike you down where you stand," Edward growled with ferocity. The man's knees buckled in fear as he could not stop his trembles. The dirt from the road he had taken from Carunn, a seaport town on the southwestern coast, had dried his mouth and he craved a fresh drink of water. He had practiced his speech ever since leaving Wessport, he had spent every waking moment tediously going over which words to say. The messenger still remembered the invoking words his queen had offered him. If he failed, they would kill him. And if he was sent away, _she_ would kill him herself. Either way, he was a walking corpse—living on borrowed time.

The man never bothered to brush off the specks of dust and flies that had stuck to his long and flimsy cape. He pushed the cap aside so that Edward might see his face. It was thin and scrawny—not yet the face of a man. The teenager kneeled and whisked forth a letter. He wondered if the general would even reach out to read it.

"Her Majesty sends me with this letter," he stuttered. The young man could not see, but he could _feel_ the ominous eyes drilling holes into the back of his exposed neck. The heat got to him, hot, unbearable and suffocating. He would not move, afraid that it might provoke the masked fiend. The courtyard was half-full. The guards that had stood on top of the walls had rushed down to take care of the intruder.

But Edward stopped them with the flick of his hand.

The masked man motioned for the others to come over. Glovendale rushed forth, also having recognized the crest of the Fell family. Athar was keenly strolling up to them as well. Saxton and Fawkes kept their distance, mindful that they would act brashly if the messenger were to offend them in any way. They had never been great diplomats, but they were smart enough to know that they might commit a mistake if provoked—and maybe that was what Victoria wanted.

Edward took the letter and opened it, Glovendale reaching him just as the perfume of the scented paper hit them with its intense fragrance. It reminded them all of Victoria, they could practically see her standing before them, leering with her satisfied smirk.

 _I will answer to no foul accusations in this letter. I will, however, express my concern for the well-being of my sister. The best physicians of Angloa, aside from New London, may be found in Wessport. If she presents the symptoms you have described to me, what I offer may help her. I have procured an antidote for her._

 _I cannot stress enough, gentlemen, that this antidote is only good for one person. It cannot be diluted, it cannot be split. It only works for_ _one_ _person._

 _Cullen, I have no idea how your fiancée was poisoned, and neither do I care. This is not for her. For, if you use this to cure her, all in this realm will know of your selfishness. All will know that you cast your loyalties aside for feeble emotions._

 _You will have defiled your honor._

Edward was about to crumble the letter when Glovendale took it from him. The general was furious, bubbling like a hot cauldron over a raging fire. There was too much anger to contain and he needed an outlet. The poor messenger was the closest thing he could get his hands on.

All stared in horror as the masked man took the collar of the already frightened messenger and dragged him to his feet. He was so infuriated that he lifted the boy off the ground.

"Tell me there is more than one antidote, boy. Your _life_ depends on it!" he growled dangerously in his ear. The malice held within Edward's voice was enough to make the young man soak his pants in fear. There was murder in Edward's eyes. Victoria did not know it, but she had just made him choose between his love and his blood.

And there was no choice to be made.

"Edward," came a calming voice behind him. "He is just a boy, just a messenger," Athar said as he stepped in. He tried to calm the raging beast. It was a side of Edward they were not used to seeing anymore. He had learned to control his anger ever since meeting Isabella. "You will give him a heart attack if you continue." It was only then that Edward saw the true fear present in the boy's eyes. It was a fear he had seen many times before—a fear he did not wish to provoke in people anymore. Edward threw away the young man, disgusted with himself.

"Theo, take this boy inside, give him some water and a fresh pair of hoses and have him hand you the antidote. Cullen, come here with me."

Edward let himself be guided away in confusion, breathing heavily from the anger that had yet to subside. All remained quiet, not daring to say a word. The surrounding guards kept their mouths firmly shut as if they were stepping on glass. No one wanted to attract the attention of the beast they had just seen. Only Athar managed to control Edward.

Edward did not know how he was taken to his chambers, he only remembered the hatred, the will to kill and destroy. And then he remembered the anguish and anxiety. He found himself in his old chambers and he could not breathe, the mask suffocated him, and he wanted nothing more than to strip it away.

"Sit down, before you fall," Athar ordered him as if he were his father. Edward did, and Athar kneeled before him. "Breathe, Edward, breathe." Athar breathed with him, holding one hand on his shoulder. He let Edward register his whereabouts for a moment and calm down.

The old man knew exactly what the poor man was going through. For he had gone through something similar. When his own wife was diagnosed with her ailment, he had felt so terrified and helpless that he thought the world might end. The same look had crossed Edward's forest green eyes.

But Athar could never understand the choice Edward was faced with.

Never.

"I am certain we can find a way to fix this. I will speak with señora Sofia and she will replicate the antidote and Isabella will be just as healthy as Rosalie."

Edward spoke to him without raising his eyes. "If I lose her, Thomas…" he started with a shaking voice. It still came out as a growl. But there was a certain panic to it. Athar had never seen him thus, never so vulnerable.

"You will not. I will not allow it."

"This is Victoria. All of this. She meant to poison Isabella, and, for some strange reason, she managed to poison her own sister as well. And now she is trying to fix her own mistake."

"Good thing we have Sofia who knows what to do," Athar smiled. He was trying to deter Edward's mind from Victoria. Now was not the time to think about her.

Athar left him to find the gypsy momentarily. Jacob and Carlisle had searched for him after having heard what had happened in the courtyard. The door opened without a knock and Edward still sat dumbfounded on his bed, his breath ragged, as if he had just run to Coldwick and back.

Jacob walked up to him. "Are you alright?" he asked, soon stopping himself when he realized it was a dumb question. "Forgive me, I should keep my mouth shut," he chastised himself.

Carlisle closed the door and walked up to his friends. He had never seen Edward so defeated, not even when he had learned that Isabella had been kidnapped by Braun.

Jacob sat down next to Edward. "I will not allow Isabella to perish either." The words managed to draw out some kind of reaction from the dulled man. He looked up, the glazed eyes behind the mask finally managing to move. "We care about her too," Jacob mumbled, putting weight behind the words. "She is like my sister, and I would never let anything happen to her, you know that, right?" he asked.

"Have we not proved that? You are not alone in this," Carlisle added.

Edward felt a blanket of security drag over him. He was not alone, he was surrounded by people who truly cared for him and his loved ones. It was a strange feeling. All he managed was a suppressed smile before the handle of the door rattled and Athar walked in, followed by Sofia, Fawkes, Saxton, and Glovendale.

"Tell him what you told me," Fawkes frowned to the gypsy.

Sofia looked at the masked man she had come to know as a son, her lips firmly shut. "I could replicate the antidote from the bottle sent from Victoria," she answered in her Spanish accent. The news should have been joyful, but the gloomy faces of the other men told them that there was something not quite right.

"What are you not telling us?" Jacob asked, alarmed.

"If I start producing an antidote without knowing how the poison was administered, it will take longer and…we…might lose one or both of them in the process. Or one of them might never recover. Time is almost up for Her Royal Highness. An antidote might not be enough in the long-run," Sofia lamented.

"How much longer before it would start affecting them long-term," Carlisle asked.

"You are not seriously considering offering Her Royal Highness' life, are you?" Fawkes blurted out. "I know you all care deeply for Lady Swan. She is a fantastic young woman. But we are talking about putting the life of our proclaimed queen on the line. She might die, and then where do we stand?" Fawkes asked. And his was indeed the voice of reason. Edward was too tired to lash out at him.

"We all must make the choice," Athar said with a heavy breath.

"Let the señora try to replicate the antidote," Glovendale mumbled, surprising them all. "I care for Lady Swan as well. And, I think, if Her Royal Highness was lucid, she would concur."

Athar nodded. "I agree," he stated, looking at them all.

Saxton was silent, very silent. But, after a long while, he too spoke up. "I…agree. But if they deteriorate further, we must make a decision. And we all know what that decision is, unfortunately." He crossed gazes with Edward. The ominous warning Saxton had given to him when Edward first arrived at Cadherra and Raven's Grove, now rang in his ears like a taunt. Isabella's life had been put fully on the line.

Carlisle and Jacob had already stated what they thought. It was Fawkes left. He looked around the room, at the harsh and judging faces. Fawkes had always been the fool-hearted of them all. He shook his head. "I agree with Saxton, the moment Her Royal Highness deteriorates further, we give her the antidote. That is my price."

Edward nodded and then turned to Sofia. She had never seen him so hurt. Maybe a similar expression had appeared in the depths of his eyes when she had revealed the letter Claudine had written for him so many years ago. "Save them," he whispered to her in Spanish so the others wouldn't understand. Only she, Jacob and Carlisle understood that Edward had no wish to lose them both.

She nodded, never so determined on anything in her life.

* * *

 **A/N: As I mentioned in the previous chapter, today on August the 30th, is a very special day. It marks the two-year anniversary of this story's first release. So two whole years have passed since Secrets of the Court was first put up on FF! I repeat once more that I never dreamed so many people would read it, or even come to read the first two completed fics, even long after they had been finished. I hope you have found as much joy in reading this fic as I am finding in writing it. I find it harder and harder to go over the chapters as I have started nearing the end of this story. I feel strangely conflicted about it, actually. On one hand, it will be nice to have this story end (not yet, we still have some chapters to go!). But, on the other, I will miss leaving you all those cliffies!**

 **Thank you so much for all your last reviews on the chapter and your interesting inputs and theories :D**

 **I hope you like this one as well!**

 **Cheers,**


	17. Chapter 17

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 17_

 _September 2_ _nd_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

When Mrs. Hammond checked for Isabella's pulse and found it weak, she turned to Lady Renée with an ashen face. "There is little time left for her."

They had all heard the news. The gypsy was set on producing another antidote so that both women might survive. But two days had passed, and each moment brought them closer and closer to imminent death. If Isabella was in such a bad state, Rosalie was no doubt much worse off.

Fawkes had had enough and ordered that Rosalie be given the antidote. In a final effort to save Isabella, Edward had, together with Alice, Jacob, and Carlisle begun searching every inch of the castle in clues for what might have poisoned both women.

They had been at it for little over a day. Edward had not rested once since his start. If he could find the poison, Sofia might replicate the antidote quicker.

They had been through the castle several times but to no avail. Nicholas and Alan had even come to help. Edward now sat by Isabella's bed in a moment of desperation. Mrs. Hammond's lip quivered in fear of the young woman losing her life.

His eyes trailed to the bookshelf, to the small collection she had been so proud of. Edward had never been much for books, it had always been a boring resource for his studies. He had never contented himself with getting lost in a story about love and adventure. Though Isabella had very much tried to lure him in. She had started with some stories of a Frenchman—Chretien de Troyes and his writings of the Arthur legend. Later, she stopped pestering him when she discovered he held no interest in literature.

There was, however, one book he was intrigued by. He knew she had kept a diary, a form of letting out her thoughts in writing. It was the only book he wished to read. She had blushed, telling him it was silly and girlish dreams. But she had never openly declared that he couldn't read them.

For one instance, he wanted to run away from his worries—much like Isabella said that she did when she was absorbed by a good story.

He stalked to the small shelf lined against one wall. The gloved hand picked out the small bound book and he felt its weight in his hand. It was light and worn. Very worn. He ignored Mrs. Hammond's curious look as he opened it to the first page. He could not help a smile spread on his lips while reading the cluttered words clumsily put on the page.

 _To who it may concen, this is the proprety of Isabella Swan and sad proprety shal not be taken, red nor shard with anyon els witot her consent._

She must have been very young when she wrote it. There were some heavy faults in her spelling, but it gave charm and character to the text. Could it have been written ten years ago? Fifteen? It was childish and lacking any maturity. He hesitated at the warning. Maybe he shouldn't read it. The lack of dust, however, told him that Isabella read it continuously, probably out of nostalgic reasons. He wished to know more about her, about her childhood.

Thus, he ignored the warnings of the girl who had once written those words and turned to the first page. Most pages were ramblings, fears, wishes, dreams and short novels she had written herself. She wrote much about her father, about her parents in general.

Edward arrived at a section of the book she had not opened: the end. He flipped to the final pages and a cloud of fine dust rose up in the air, making him sneeze violently as he inhaled it. The writing was more recent, here—much darker. It was when her father had been taken and she was to travel to Wessport with her mother. There was no date, but Edward knew it would most likely be a year before he met her.

And then he felt it. The itch at the back of his throat, strangely familiar, followed by a metallic taste coating his tongue. He looked up in shock and crossed eyes with Mrs. Hammond. She stared at him strangely, for the realization that had hit his eyes spread across his whole body and he tensed with the book in hand.

Edward cast it to the side-table and rushed to the shelf. He picked out book after book and flicked all the pages, feeling his heart beat louder, drumming in his ears as the same fine dust rose to the air, filtering through the light of day. He sneezed again and stepped away, guarding himself against the poisonous dust-cloud.

"What is going on?" Mrs. Hammond asked alarmed. She knew Edward had just discovered something of importance. He took some of the books and rushed somewhere else.

The masked man bolted into Rosalie's chambers, the windows covered and a raging fire in the fireplace. The physician had said heat would make her sweat out the poison. He had drawn blood from her as well, saying it would restore her humors. Sofia had wrinkled her nose, saying the learned man was wrong. She had never much liked western physicians. And Edward knew that the medic was most likely worsening the princess' condition.

She barely looked alive as he walked up to her. Her skin was almost translucent now and she looked more corpse than human. A strange fear embedded itself within him as he walked past an alarmed Athar, clutching the books firmly in hand.

He walked about her room a few times until he found what he was looking for. More books. Edward opened one and found, after flicking through some unread parts of it, dust rising, the same dust. He saw the title of the book " _La Chanson de Roland_ ". It was Isabella's book. She must have lent it to Rosalie.

But, if their source of poisoning was the same, and Isabella had had those books in her possession much longer, then how could Rosalie be worse of?

"The books," he turned to Athar who had risen from his chair. "The books contain the poison."

He walked up to him and took one of the tomes. He smelled the pages. "I cannot smell anything," Athar whispered.

"It might be invisible to our eyes and noses," Edward answered. But he took the opened book and blew softly across the page. A faint cloud of dust left the pages. "It is most likely something to be inhaled." Athar quickly stepped back in fear, covering his nose and mouth. "One time will not do us much harm. I accidentally breathed it in before."

"How do you know all this?" Athar almost didn´t ask, afraid he already knew the answer.

And Edward almost didn't answer. "I've seen my fair share of poisons throughout my life, Athar," he answered darkly. "If it is what I think it is, Sofia might concoct another antidote in a matter of hours."

"But how can Her Royal Highness be at the brink of death if she has been in contact with these books for a shorter amount of time?" Athar had asked what Edward had been thinking.

"I don't know. But one thing is sure, these are Isabella's books—she was the one who was meant to be poisoned," he growled through gritted teeth,

A hand shook him away from the anger. "Take this to Sofia, now!" Athar said. There was no time to lose.

When Sofia inhaled the dust and felt the familiar poison, she knew, as well, what it was. "Dried and diluted Fly Agaric," she muttered. Of course it was. It must have been mixed with other components, however, for inhaling something like the mushroom by itself caused death within seconds. Ingesting it was even worse. This was meant to weaken and kill Isabella slowly. She must, however, have taken a larger dose than expected, someone must have been careless when sprinkling the pages of her books. Edward, after a minor dose, started feeling the effects. He had to sit down before losing consciousness. Sofia did the same, to be safe.

"Clever," the gypsy growled.

"Can you make an antidote?" Edward had never known agaric could be inhaled as such. The whole thing screamed Victoria even more now.

"There is no known antidote for this. What Victoria has sent must be some form of charcoal, but it might be too late for it to have effect. More than a week has passed and the substance is already well in Rosalie's system." She turned to the masked man.

"When we went to the East, I heard of some experimental treatments that I will try for Rosalie if Victoria's antidote does not help her. As for Isabella," she smiled. "She will be fine. Since she has inhaled a lower amount of it, I will give her a cleanser for her airways to inhale. The symptoms should lessen—" Sofia hesitated, as if she had suddenly realized something.

"What?" Edward demanded. He was agitated, not liking the look stretching over the wrinkled face.

"Victoria sent an ingestible antidote. That means that she believes Rosalie ingested this poison. It might explain why she is so much worse off." She paused. "If she has ingested dust particles of this poison, there might be little I could do."

"Try," Edward pleaded, taking her by her bony shoulders. A sad smile spread over her thin lips and her black eyes twinkled.

"You know I would do anything for you, Edward," she sighed, placing her hand on his cheek.

Soon he rushed to Rosalie with the antidote given by Victoria as Sofia had no need for it anymore. He had to force the princess up in bed and feed her the dark liquid.

He sat by her side, Saxton right next to him. The hours ticked by slowly. Before he knew it, night approached fiercely.

"Maybe you should go be with her," Saxton whispered to him after a while. There was a strange peace in the room that he did not wish to disturb. He watched the princess, how her breathing had calmed down. Maybe he imagined it, but she seemed better now.

Edward glanced at the downtrodden lord. The way he looked at Rosalie gave him away.

"I am not allowed to care for her openly. And I am not allowed to make room for her in my heart. The pain my wife and child's death left behind is still too great," he said in a shaking whisper.

"Time is the greatest cure of them all," Edward murmured in the stillness of dusk.

"Not always." Saxton's gaze shifted, and so did his mood. It was as if he had been reminded of some foul memory. His nose wrinkled, and anger took over. Subdued, but raw and powerful. Edward recognized it.

"I fear losing her too," Edward cut through the anger, speaking of Rosalie again.

"What is she to _you_?" Emmett snapped.

Through the slit of his mask, his lips pressed into a thin line as his jaw tensed. "Not what she is to you, I assure you, Saxton," he answered darkly. It made Saxton snap out of his angered state.

"Forgive me, I—" but the redhead found no words.

Edward stood up, knowing there was little left to do. Rosalie had been given Victoria's antidote. Only time would tell now. And Saxton was by her side. There was someone else who required him.

"When Braun kidnapped Isabella, I acted the same way too," he said with a knowing look and walked out. Saxton was about to protest but remained silent as the door shut behind Edward.

The room smelled burnt. The whisper of smoke was still present, and, in one corner, incense still burned.

Mrs. Hammond had been sent to bed long ago by Lady Renée. But, the grand lady herself was about to fall from her chair out of fatigue.

"My lady," came a rumbling voice behind her. She jumped. Renée had not heard Edward walk in. She turned and saw nothing but his silhouette in the shadows, faintly illuminated by the silver moonbeams. "Go rest," he almost ordered her. "I will continue to look over her."

"I am not that tired, General…Edward," she protested. Edward walked up to her with silent footsteps.

"It is past midnight and you look about ready to fall asleep."

But she pleaded with him. "I need to know if señora Sofia's cure worked. I need to know that my daughter one will be alright."

He kneeled next to her chair. "If there are any changes, you will be the first one I call for. But wouldn't Isabella feel guilty if she saw how wretched you look once she wakes up?"

Renée paused, considering his words. Edward still spoke with hope. _Once she wakes up_ , he had said. He still held a firm belief that Isabella was within salvation. Sofia had, of course, not given her much information of the type of poison or the type of strange antidote she was now giving her.

The exhausted mother nodded slowly. "Take my room," Edward offered. "It is right next door."

"What about you?"

"I'll be fine." He gave her a rare smile and the older woman's heart softened at the pearly whites. She let herself be persuaded and he walked her to the door. Once it had been closed, Edward sank down in the chair and took Isabella's hand in his. For some reason, he felt it would be a very long night.

It was a strange thing, to feel so exhausted. Isabella's head was pounding with the force of a herd. She wanted to groan but found her voice was too weak. Her lips were parched.

She did not remember much from the past few days. The last lucid moment she could recall was fainting in the gardens. But had there not been a moment where people had been around her bed? She had not been able to speak then—nor move.

She felt a hand claim hers, warm, still and big. She recognized that hand all too well. Her eyes opened slowly, afraid that, if it was bright outside, the stark light would blind her. But it was dark, her awakening softened by the stillness of an early morning.

Somewhere footsteps passed her closed door. And, in the quiet of her room, she perceived soft and even breaths next to her. Someone was sleeping next to her bed. She turned her head with great effort and found a figure in dark garb. Her smile was weak, but it was there. Before waking him, she contemplated every part of his fatigued self.

Edward had fallen asleep sometime in the early hours of morning, his upper body resting on her large bed, close to her. His hand still clutched hers, as if he did not want to let go of her, even in his sleep.

She squeezed his ungloved hand softly, and it was enough to wake him.

Edward's head darted up and he looked around, alarmed. The confused eyes found hers, sleep still present in his eyes, not yet wide awake. And then he saw her smile, her eyes opened, clear and wide before him. A stray tear rolled down one masked cheek. His hand went to dry it automatically.

The feeling of seeing her awake was inexplicable. It was a joy he had not experienced since Constantinople. He thought he'd lost her two times, and two times he had gotten her back. Edward was careful with her and made no hasty moves.

There was a way in which he looked at her that made Isabella realize whatever happened, whatever obstacles they might face, he loved her, truly loved her. It made her feel safe, wanted, cared for. Her chest expanded with an inexplicable immensity. She had never known how to properly explain what love felt like for she had never known it until recently. But this was love, she knew. And the way in which he looked at her, she knew he experienced the same grand emotion.

"How long?" she asked after a while. The young woman was afraid of breaking the perfect stillness between the two. Her voice was rough and dry, her lips chapped and stinging. She ached—her whole body ached. But as long as those eyes remained with hers, as long as that hand never let hers go, she didn't care.

"Too long," he whispered in a velvety voice. It was so different from the fierce and growling general's. It was rich and smooth, but still deep and powerful. And when Edward stood up, Isabella frowned. There was no need to loudly protest.

"Your mother would only rest if I promised to get her once you woke up," he explained by the door.

Isabella loved her mother, but she needed another moment of solace with Edward, another moment where they both existed in utter serenity. He left the door ajar and as soon as his frame was out of sight, the true pain she had pushed back blossomed up. She squealed at aching muscles, weak and frail. There was a headache, so splitting that she thought she might pass out at one moment. Her head rested on the pillows when her mother rushed in.

Panic mixed with joy melted on Renée's face as she saw her daughter's opened eyes. Edward lit a few candles, the invasive yellow light blinding Isabella's eyes as the sun shifted closer to the horizon.

"Bella!" Renée cried out, holding her daughter. Isabella bit back protests of pain. Her mother seemed to have fallen ill, if she didn't know any better. There were prominent circles under her eyes and her face was pale. Isabella let herself be held for a moment.

"Mother," she answered weakly. There was little to say. "I am fine now." There was a strange urge to reassure Renée Swan that she did not suffer.

Renée had never been as relieved. She had never gone through such a scare in her life. She held her daughter for a long time, afraid that if she let go, she might lose her. The commotion had drawn curious footsteps their way; servants who had started preparing the castle for a new day. As soon as word leaked that Isabella Swan was awake, it spread like wildfire through the desolate and dark hallways of the fortress. It gained speed along the stone corridors as it jumped from mouth to mouth. Mrs. Hammond and Alice were soon there, as well as Jacob. He had hastily thrown on a shirt, not realizing it was on backward. The young man didn't care, he only saw Isabella and her opened eyes. Jacob was so relieved that he had to hold the wall for support.

Dawn sparkled with the promise of a sunny day, the twitter of birds a distant music filtering in through the opened window. It seemed all was well in that room.

Early morning brought with it the footsteps of an old woman with silver streaks in her hair. Her raven eyes gazed about the lively room and settled on the frail woman in the bed. Sofia walked past the relieved mother and the doting husband, directly to Isabella's bedside.

She took Isabella's pulse and felt the weight of the frail arm. Mrs. Hammond had engaged Alice and Renée in a lively discussion of who had to do what kind of duties from now on. Edward had momentarily gone to help Jacob with his shirt—alas, unwilling to leave Isabella.

But it gave time for the gypsy to see if the young woman had really made a recovery. There was never a true way of knowing with poisons. This might be the calm before the storm. When she felt the growing pulse, a knowing smile spread on her lips.

"Be lucky, niña, that I was here," she snickered with her Spanish accent.

Isabella's eyes turned down to look at the tanned and skinny hand feeling her wrist. "What sickness was this that I was the only one affected?" she asked slowly. Isabella looked up when she was met with silence.

Sofia's face was clear, unspoken words giving away the only truth the young woman needed. Isabella nodded. "How?" She pushed past the fatigue—she had to know.

"Powder sprinkled on the pages of your books," Sofia said in muted tones as Edward came to sit next to them once more. The commotion died down when it was clear what the women were speaking of.

"Enough, my daughter need not concern herself with this—" Renée started.

"I have every right mother, I am the one who nearly lost her life," Isabella snapped. Edward held his tongue. He did not think it prominent if his wife knew all the details yet…she had just woken up. But he would not get in her way. If there was one thing Isabella had been clear about, it was that she made her own decisions. Renée's mouth fell a little at her daughter's sharp retort.

"What of Rosalie?" Isabella asked with sudden alarm in her eyes. "I remember seeing her fall in the gardens as well. Has she the same ailment as I?"

Deathly silence. The tension was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. It made her jittery, scared even. Jacob turned to face the window and Alice looked at her hands. Mrs. Hammond's features darkened, and Renée's brow furrowed. The only faces she could not read were Edward's and Sofia's.

"She is worse off than you were," Sofia answered. "I have given her an antidote, but the harm may already be irreversible."

"She was poisoned too?"

Sofia looked away with sinking shoulders. "She was poisoned too," her voice echoed, and ice coursed through Isabella. No one spoke, and she understood the severity of Rosalie's situation.

She asked to be alone, not willing to move a muscle, not willing to show a single emotion. Edward still remembered the empty eyes staring dead ahead as he stayed behind.

"It isn't your fault," he whispered to her. But she didn't respond. Isabella lay back in bed in silence and fatigue. She shivered from her weakness while he went over to her. The young woman did not ask him to leave as he pulled up the blankets to cover her further. He sat by her side until she eventually fell asleep from exhaustion. Isabella was afraid to ask any further questions and hoped things would clear up once she woke.

 _September 3_ _rd_ _– New London_

Victoria had not cried for a long time. She had not known this fear before. No word had reached her from Cadherra—no information about her sister. Was Rosalie dead? Had she managed to kill her own sister? The mere thought sickened her, and she looked up, startled by her own reflection in the crooked mirror across the room.

She was enveloped by a thick darkness. The curtains draped heavy by the tall windows, elegantly embroidered and blocking out every ounce of light. The floor had managed to gather a thin layer of dust and whenever she exhaled, it seemed to entice the specs to fly up in the air. Candles flickered and made the air heavy and clotted her head. But Victoria would not leave the room, afraid they would see the true wreck that she was.

She lay on the bed in nothing but her thin chemise and stared up at the wooden ceiling and the intricate carvings it presented. The tapestries along the stone walls spoke of another world, void of her problems. Maybe she could escape there. A knife was in her hand as a lone tear streamed down her face. Victoria feared the hand which held the knife. Would that hand act if news of Rosalie's death reached her? Was she that weak? What peace would she find in death? There would be no paradise for her, no reunion with her loved ones.

A face came into memory, distant and fading. But she could discern the kind eyes, the gentle curve of a lip, the silken skin of a cheek pressing against hers. Parts of her mother was still alive within her mind. Victoria's arm came before her eyes as she grew ashamed. Would her mother ever forgive the atrocities she had committed? The queen knew what she was—what she had done. There was no escaping it anymore. She was trapped in a prison of her own making and she had to finish what she started lest she lost it all. She had figured living with the guilt would work, that time would wash it away. But the years and last few months started getting to her. A moment of weakness had glinted open Pandora's Box and it was dangerously close to being opened the entire way.

She suddenly rushed to sit up, casting the knife aside, disgusted with herself.

How could she be so weak? She was the _Queen_ , she had a whole country at her feet. Victoria stared long at her reflection. Her face was slowly wasting away, and her true age showed in the wrinkles around her eyes and forehead. Her youth was gone forever—she had cast it aside plotting. And now there was only room for disdain. She found no happiness in her power; she only craved more. It was an unquenchable thirst that would never cease. She realized that now. Victoria would never be happy.

But… maybe she could find some peace in knowing that Rosalie was safe. And, in the depths of her blackened heart, she found delight in knowing that she had harmed Isabella Swan and thus Edward Cullen. If she could not have him then no one could. It was the only things she could cling on to anymore: fear and hate.

 _September 5_ _th_ _– Adelton Hall_

Her recuperation had been slow and tedious. But she was getting healthier. The remnants of the poison were leaving her system and the past three days had seen Isabella regain some remain of her former self.

Sofia was there every step of the way. Truth be told, most people in the castle was in one way or another there by her side. Glovendale, Athar, Jacob, Carlisle or Saxton—even Rajac, would walk with her in the gardens when Edward was with Rosalie. And the maids took delight in serving her meals. The old malice toward the daughter of Charles Swan—the traitor—had completely washed away. Isabella was admired now, for her bravery, her determinedness and for what she had survived. They respected her and spoke well of her. Her recovery was viewed as miraculous and people saw it as meant to be. She was supposed to be with Edward. For, how indeed could such a loving couple ever be split?

Isabella had insisted for days that she meet Rosalie. She wanted to see how the princess faired herself. Sofia had insisted the princess rest. But Isabella had finally managed to argue for her case. She felt guilty that Rosalie had been poisoned because of her. The young woman wanted to make sure they both reached a speedy recovery.

And now she sat there, in the stuffy room, with the fire roaring despite the warmth pressing. Sweat ran down her back, inside her stays.

Rosalie sat up, propped against a massive stack of pillows with a doting Mrs. Hammond giving her a cup of water. A smile spread the princess' face as she spotted the young lady entering her room. Mrs. Hammond's small form was soon out of the door and it left Isabella feeling exposed and vulnerable before the princess.

The gowns she now wore were exquisite, beautifully sewn by expert hands. It was in a light material, the silk a pastel blue. Her chestnut locks were woven into an intricate up-do with pearls glinting in the yellow light of the fire. Rosalie admired the woman before her very much. The red of her lips stood out against the paleness of her creamy skin. Her face held still, a mask which she could not permeate. Isabella Swan would not show her true emotions, even to her princess.

"Could you open the blinds?" Rosalie asked.

Isabella curtsied and went to the windows without a word, the golden eyes trailing her form as she pushed aside the heavy drapes. Light spilled in and blinded them both. "The windows, open the windows," Rosalie asked again. Isabella did, slowly, tediously. The waft of the garden and forest danced in the air and she heard a sigh of relief escape Rosalie.

She went to sit in the chair Mrs. Hammond had been occupying earlier. "The physician says I should guard myself against the frisky mountain air. He believes it could contain some form of miasma not good for me. But I need its freshness," the princess stated. She rested against the pillow, letting her exhaustion show.

"I could return, Your Royal Highness—"

"No, please stay," Rosalie pleaded. "Besides, leaving would defeat your purpose of being here." Despite her fatigue, she managed a smile—her pale lips spreading across her beautiful features. Isabella had never before realized how beautiful Rosalie truly was. Many would always forget her as she was always compared to her sister. But while Victoria held a dangerous and fiery allure, Rosalie's countenance was pure and soft. Isabella had seen a painting of the late queen Marianne once. And Rosalie truly looked like her late mother.

"I wished to make sure you are recuperating, Your Royal Highness," Isabella began. But she could not keep up her act. She trusted in Rosalie. The young woman knew she could be honest with her now. "If I had not lent you my books—" she began with a waiver to her voice and her eyes downtrodden. She gripped the hem of her skirts as a pained expression invaded her features. But a calming hand found hers, soothed her with a caress.

"It was never your fault, Isabella. We are not to blame," she smiled. Isabella thought the princess might be on the bettering way. But she saw through the smile, saw the pain behind the glistening eyes. "You remind me of my sister, you know," she said without much thought.

Isabella's head shot up in confusion at such an expression. She never thought Rosalie would insult her thus. But the princess chuckled, explaining her statement. "You remind me of Victoria before she became what she is." The pale hand gripped hers tighter as Rosalie leaned forward with a serious expression. "That is a good thing," she said in all seriousness she could muster. The expression glazing her eyes told Isabella that Rosalie was lost in her memories.

"You will forgive me for wanting to disagree with you, Your Royal Highness. I do not wish to be compared to Victoria," Isabella whispered with a shiver to her voice.

"Victoria has always been the strong one. She has gone through more than I could ever begin to comprehend. She is fierce, she has always been. But most of all, she was by my side and protected me. I will never forgive her for her actions. But understand that my sister has suffered through more than you and I could comprehend." Rosalie did not understand the sudden urge to explain her sister's life to a woman she had only known for a few months.

Minutes turned to hours as the princess retold her childhood. She spoke of the happy memories with her sister, of Rebecca Trienne, the horrible woman who had started it all. She spoke of Edgar Mayne, Victoria's deceased husband and what she later learned he had put her through. Rosalie had been saved a similar fate when Victoria had sent her with the nuns, away from Wessport.

"You need to understand that Victoria is forever lost in her lust and hunger for power. But I want you to see the woman who she once was—and she could have been formidable; just as you can. But my sister was lead down the wrong path. I see a similarity in you, the same potential Victoria had. Do not stray from the path you are on. Comparing you to what she was is not an insult, Isabella. I see it as an honor. And I hope you will too, someday."

"Why do you speak in such a way?" Isabella asked, afraid.

"Because when one has faced death and lived, it makes one value things much more." Rosalie looked at their entwined hands. "I once said I could never forgive her. But even after this atrocious act against you, against me, I have found my conscience again." She looked up at the young brunette. "I hope you will be able to forgive her one day as well."

Isabella frowned. "She tried to kill me. I am not as pious as you, Your Royal Highness, I—"

"I hope you will be able to forgive her for _all_ her sins one day."

Isabella did not know what that was supposed to mean. But she understood that there was something Rosalie knew that she did not.

"When Victoria is dethroned, and you take her place, maybe I can find it within myself and—" she hesitated. "And begin to heal," Isabella whispered.

The sad smile never left Rosalie's features. There seemed to be something else Rosalie wished to speak of. But she hesitated, almost afraid to speak further. Isabella was about to ask her, when the princess interrupted her.

"I need to speak with him," she said with a seriousness that bore down on her features. The room suddenly got cold from the opened window and a shill echoed like a silent scream through Isabella. She knew exactly what Rosalie wanted of Edward. And there was nothing she could do to stop her.

"You have asked him once already," she said, rising from the chair with a distant and harsh voice. It was the only thing masking the fear behind it.

Rosalie fought against the sorrow. "I have to ask him again, you know I have to," she lamented. Her eyes did not look away. "A princess does not ask for things, she demands them." The sense of duty that Rosalie had always known prevailed. "But," she whispered with hesitance. "Maybe a sister…a friend would ask."

Isabella's back faced hers. She was not ready to turn around and look Rosalie in the eye. She was not ready to give it all up once more. But a strange force made her turn, made her look the princess in the eye and speak.

"Promise me it will only be for a short time," she said. Isabella could not wait for an answer and turned, forcefully shutting the door behind her.

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter for you! :) Thank you for all the reviews of the last one, glad you liked it!**

 **I hope you will like this one as well.**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	18. Chapter 18

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 18_

 _September 5_ _th_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

"I have sat by your bedside since you fell in those gardens," he growled. "And my answer remains the same.

"But the circumstances are not the same, William," she retorted back with all the energy she could muster.

"You know I cannot reveal who I am, even now."

"No, you cannot," she agreed. Her eyes pierced his with a strange determinedness. He recognized it from somewhere. Why was it so familiar? Was it a reflection of himself he saw in her face then? Rosalie Fell, princess of Angloa, his sister. "But I can send Edward Cullen away to get my brother here," she answered. "It is time William stepped into the light."

He walked over to the window with his back tense, regarding the pouring rains. Summer had started slipping away days ago and autumn beckoned. "It would only be until my recovery, I promise," she tried. "Some lords from Sorise have left us, we are losing support in Coldwick and Victoria gains her footing in Sorossa. God knows how Durun's blockade is faring in the North. I cannot rule from my bed. I need my brother. _We_ need a strong leader. And he cannot hide behind a mask, not anymore." A coughing fit shook her, Rosalie had overexerted herself and Edward knew he was selfish.

He turned to face her, his face unmasked, his whole being bared before her in fear, in uncertainty. "How can I stand before those men as the son of Philip Fell and ask them to follow me when I do not intend to take the crown?" he asked her. "How can I live up to the name of our father? They will expect everything from me—"

Her eyes softened. "You have already lived up to father's name as Edward. Now do the same as William. Listen to me," she leaned forward with anticipation and managed to draw him in. Despite her begin in bed, despite her pale complexion, Rosalie still made him listen, still inspired respect in him. "You have been running from this your whole life. Something brought you back to Angloa, and if it was not destiny, then I do not know what it was." Her hand reached for his, his silhouette outlined against the gray sky.

"I would ask Edward Cullen to take my place, but even though he is a Field Marshal, my trusted general, he cannot take my place as regent. We need someone with stronger ties and there is only one left for that."

Edward sat next to his sister with fear present in his eyes. But the more she spoke, the more that fear disappeared and gave way to something else. She cupped his face in her hands. "It is true that some lords might see you as an opportunist, some might not wish to follow you. But all you need is Athar, Fawkes, and Glovendale. That is enough. Victoria may believe what she wants, but she is not the biggest threat right now. If we show the English that you are alive, Angloa still stands a chance." The tears running down her face were genuine and ripped him in two. It was freedom or duty he was now faced with and it tore him to shreds. "You stand before a difficult decision, but I promise that, if you still do not wish that place, that power—then I will allow you to remain as Edward Cullen and return to Isabella and Cadherra when I recuperate."

Rosalie had never truly regarded Edward as her younger brother. In her eyes, he had always retained so much more wisdom and experience. Out of the two, he seemed the older one. But now, his true age presented itself. The man, not even thirty, felt like a lost child before the princess, faced with such a decision. He had escaped his destiny and his name for almost two decades.

"Nothing will be the same if William Fell steps forth," he lamented. Edward's eyes were cast down because he knew what would happen if he did not do as Rosalie begged. Chaos, more war— destruction.

"I know I promised to take on the sole responsibility. But I cannot do that now. Besides, you only need to leave the politics to Athar and Glovendale. What the lords and people need is a symbol—a symbol of strength that I cannot be right now. But you can."

"Isabella—"

"I have spoken with her," Rosalie interrupted. "But maybe you should too."

* * *

The rain would not cease as she kept staring out the window. It had remained opened. She did not mind the chill invading her chamber.

"Your eyes are sad," came a soft voice from her side.

She looked at him, wondering how he had seen that. "As are yours," she thwarted. She knew that sadness would never truly disappear. But it gladdened her that it lessened whenever he was in her presence.

"Still no news of who had us poisoned?" she asked

A shook of his head and sagging shoulders followed. "I will find out whoever it was."

He sat down next to her on the bed and pushed a lock of hair out of her tired face. "Listen now to me, whatever decision you have just been faced with, I am certain you made the right one," he tried to reassure her.

"I have just burdened someone else with my worries, with my obligations," she whispered to him. She needed him to tell her that it would all be alright. She did no longer find absolute solace in God, in her faith. Instead, it was in the embrace of a man she barely knew.

He leaned closer as if he wanted to give her that reassurance and Rosalie's lips parted, waiting for him. Emmett leaned toward her and kissed her with want, with sadness and passion. He would never get over his late wife, he would never be able to get rid of the guilt for what he was doing. And she would never be able to forget how she had sinned. But how could their actions be a sin?

Every caress Saxton gave her, every sigh, every shudder, comforted her. Since having arrived into Raven's Grove and into his domain, he had been a strong pillar to lean on. And now Rosalie needed him more than ever. The pious and pure princess was forgotten for a moment. Despite being frail and fatigued she allowed him to take her, to kiss her senseless, to comfort her with his embrace and caresses. But there was sorrow in their union, for they knew it would never go past that point.

As the rain kept falling, and their breaths kept increasing, Rosalie bit back the pain, the fear. She let herself fall into the dream and hoped she would never wake up.

* * *

He found her in her usual spot. In her window, leaning against the glass, reading a book. She was curled in a ball under a blanket and stared emptily at the pages. He figured she had not read a single word since having entered.

Did she notice the dark figure lurking in the gray corner of her room? Probably not. Maybe she didn't want to.

He moved silently, stealthily to where she sat, afraid to disturb her peace. She closed the book, yet she did not look at him.

"Lord Tyris is considering leaving for Sorise," she whispered as she stared at the dark clouds.

He walked to the bookshelf and found the diary he had read once. Suddenly he felt out of place there; as if he was not supposed to be in that room—as if he was an intruder into her past.

"I want you to tell me that you are not even considering Rosalie's plea." Isabella could not face him, for she was afraid her mask would fall. "But how could I do that when I asked you to stay and fight for Angloa?"

"Then you are stronger than I: I hide behind this mask and use it as an excuse to remain hidden."

In some way, she wanted to hate him. And, indeed, Isabella looked at him with pain in her eyes. "What will you do?"

A short moment of hesitance followed. "My duty," he replied solemnly. She shook her head.

"For once, Edward, will you not act of your own will? Why do you not make this decision based on what _you_ want?" she asked.

"Because it does not matter what I want." He wanted to growl and shout at her, but he kept at bay. She understood enough. "It is only for a little while...until Rosalie gets better. Then she will retake my place and William Fell disappears forever."

"What if Athar will not let you go?" she whispered as the raindrops fell heavily against the window.

"He nor anyone else will ever be able to stop me from leaving your side, you know that. You heard the words, Isabella. Only death will do us part." He caught her eyes and the fear present in them for she knew what he had to do.

"Only for a little while," she whispered back. The masked man standing before her nodded slowly. He was frightened, unsure, confused. But he would not let it cloud his judgment.

Her eyes found the gray heavens displayed outside again. "Do we know who poisoned Rosalie and me?"

"Jacob is working on it. Saxton is helping him. I suspect he will know by the time I return."

"I know it wasn't Alan Moore," she mumbled. "He would not do such a thing…not anymore."

"But someone did it, and we will find the culprit."

 _September 8_ _th_

Isabella had helped Rosalie step into the dress and sit in her chair. She had carefully applied the tint to her cheeks. Something had to be done about her sickly appearance. It brought back some color to the other lifeless visage. Rosalie almost looked herself again. She was dressed in regal attire, her golden locks coiffed to perfection, the dark blue velvet hugging her figure, the chains of her necklace heavy against her bosom. She was the epitome of royalty.

It was the first time she had summoned her council and her advisors since her poisoning. They were nervous, wondering what she was thinking. Victoria's forces were too close, hugging the northern border of Raven's Grove—the queen herself stationed in New London. The English loomed in the north and the south had begun splitting up on them.

The hour was dark, and they all knew it.

"You may wonder, my lords, why I have summoned you here in this dire hour," she said somberly, with strength in her voice. Athar's brows furrowed and Glovendale sat perched in his chair. Saxton only stared at her with worry. She should have taken some more days to rest.

Lord Tyris stepped forth. "Your Royal Highness, the hour is more than dire. The time for uniting the south has passed and your sister realizes that. Lord Irias of Zafra has still not answered your call. Lord Raleigh remains shielded away as well. The south will not come." He looked away in shame. "I am afraid I have started realizing it now as well," he mumbled in a bitter voice. Tyris was not proud of his actions. But he had to distance himself from Rosalie in hopes that Victoria would leave him and his family alone.

She ignored his words. "My sister hovers at the border of Raven's Grove. She is the sole responsible for my current state. Now more than ever we need to stay strong and hold our position."

"If we do not decide fast, Victoria Fell will massacre us. We stand defenseless before her. The only reason she has not stricken yet is because of you," Rajac said. They stared at the ugly scar, at the hatred seeping through him the moment he mentioned Victoria's name.

"We are barely two-thousand. Tell me how that will help against an army ten times as large."

"And Lord Durun is in the north, keeping the English at bay. But they are resilient, waiting for a chance to strike," Lord Tyris said in a forceful voice, talking over the other mumblings. "And where is your Field Marshal? I do not see Edward Cullen. In fact, come to think of it, I have not seen him for the past few days."

More murmurs rose, fear in their eyes. Had Cullen abandoned them?

"Quit your blabbering. How can you even consider such a thing? That Cullen would abandon us?" Glovendale spat in disgust. "You have frail faith in him, after everything he has done for us."

"Then bring him here," another lord demanded. "Let him explain himself why he is not here, tell us where he has been. The assembly has not seen him; that is all I know."

"The Lion of the North headed first into battle when you were pissing your pants on the side, calling for your mother. Do not insult him with your questions. Isabella Swan is still here. And we all know he would never leave her if he was to leave Angloa. He plans to return," Saxton stepped in, trying to save Edward some face.

Tyris and half of the other lords turned to the princess, her breath short, her hand grabbing the old throne, trying to control the overexertion.

Rosalie looked at the many faces before her. "I sent him away," she murmured out into the stillness. "To find someone."

The lords and officers looked amongst themselves in slight confusion.

"To find whom?" Fawkes asked

But Rosalie shook her head. She had promised Edward and she would not speak now.

"You must understand how this looks," Athar began. He stepped forward with a kind and gentle voice, trying to reason with her. "We only wish to know why, now out of all times, you would send Cullen away—our right hand on the battlefield."

"When he returns, I shall explain it all," Rosalie said, growing short of breath. "If you will excuse me, my lords, but I have pushed it too far today." Rosalie's lips shuddered as she herself shook. Her eyes met with Saxton's.

"Help Her Royal Highness to her chamber," Fawkes commanded.

Many frowned as Rosalie Fell was helped away. She was still weak, and there would be much time before she recuperated.

* * *

The pestle came down with impressive force, grinding the herbs into a sloppy paste. Eyes looked, transfixed, hypnotized by the grinding stone.

Sofia put more force, letting her anger out into the monotone action. That she was upset was an understatement. She was furious. At what? They did not know; she would not say. Something in the way she held herself reflected in Isabella: doubt, fear.

Renée was hanging freshly picked herbs to dry from the beams in the kitchen. Mrs. Hammond was there, some kitchen maids scouring away from them.

Alice carefully looked at her friend as she folded the cloth. The only present sound was the crushing of leaves, stone against stone, and a rapid breath increasing with every heartbeat. The fires had long since died, but their glow remained. Sometimes, the remains of the logs would crack, sending red-hot sparks flying up against the black wall of the fireplace.

"My la—Isabella," Alice said. She feared breaking the tense silence. But the young woman could bear it no longer. The others looked her way, before returning back to their tasks. Isabella had never diverted her eyes from Sofia.

Alice stepped in closer, placing her hand on the blue brocade lining the fabric of her dress, resting gently on her arm.

"What is it, Alice?" Isabella did not turn to face her. Her features were ashen and tired, her eyes fleeting.

Alice had wanted to comfort her, for she knew something was wrong. But what could she say? There was no way of knowing what had happened, or what was to happen. All she knew was that Isabella feared something. Something big.

"Nothing," Alice whispered in defeat. Her friend would not open up to her. Not now.

The young woman went back to her sewing and Isabella decided it was time to leave. But she did not wish to go to her room. She wandered the dark hallways as night pressed on. The shiver of an early autumn night got to her. And when she thought herself alone, she pressed her face to the cool stone and let the tears fall.

Isabella sank to the floor as the laments escaped her. She trembled as she scratched the wall, desperately trying to grab onto anything that would have her. She could be strong before Rosalie, before the lords and servants and soldiers. She could even stand strong before her friends and family. But not before herself. Isabella could not fool herself. Her breath hitched as she felt the Damascus dagger press against her thigh and her tears kept running. Memories of a near past fleeted by. Melike would scowl at her if she saw her current state. Alas, she did not care.

She wanted to let her tears consume her, melt away in that darkness. Isabella crawled into a small ball and shuddered further, letting her fear consume her.

Seconds, minutes, hours—she did not know how much time had passed. She never heard the footsteps, nor saw the light. All Isabella felt were the two hands embracing her, the warmth they produced and how she turned and cried into the bosom of her mother.

Renée did not ask why her daughter was so distressed. When she saw her alone, in the flickering light of a torch, her heart broke. She kneeled with her and held her like she was a small girl again—afraid of the dark.

Mother rocked her child, held her until the tears dried and they sat there, enveloped by a cloak of silence.

She eventually led Isabella to her room and stayed with her until she fell asleep. Not once did she ask or press on what was distressing her so. Renée was merely there, a calming presence for the young woman to latch on to until a dreamless sleep claimed her.

 _September 9th – Castell_

News had reached them from the south. Rosalie had lost her strength after having lost her health. Rumor had it that she had been poisoned, together with Lady Isabella Swan. Many did not have to guess anymore who the guilty was. People started realizing more and more to what lengths Victoria was willing to go to reach ultimate power.

Walter Durun stared at the ships in the distance. The English had called for more forces and were setting up their campaign. Soon, another war would come to these shores. And it would determine the future of Angloa forever: if she was to be a country or a colony.

He needed Rosalie to win over Victoria or there would be no more Angloa. He had sent various messengers down to Cadherra but he wondered if anyone had made it there alive.

But now there might be a chance.

Edward Cullen had left Adelton. The reason was closely guarded. All he knew was that the princess had allowed the general to leave in a truly dire hour. And there had to be an important reason as to why. Many speculated that Rosalie was seeking help in France or Spain. But why would those mighty nations help her? It was like inviting someone else to come and overtake them if the English failed.

Durun had sent another messenger, hoping that, this time, it would reach the masked general.

"We cannot be at a standstill with these for too long, my lord," came the tense reply from a leftenant.

"I know," Durun rasped. "But we must hold the north and evade a battle as long as we can. Until this internal strife has come to an end, we must make sure that the English do not gain a footing on our shores.

Poised on cliffs and overlooking the roughness of the northern sea, the men stared at the arriving English ships. There had to be at least thirty of them. And each ship had to carry more than enough for the invading army to be larger than their own. "God help us," Durun heard from behind him. They would not last an hour against the army once it came. And they all knew it.

 _September 10_ _th_ _– Adelton Hall_

Edward had not told anyone where he would go. He had slipped away in the darkness of night and vanished like a shadow. There were only four people aware of his disappearance. And when dawn stretched on the horizon, the people of Adelton soon noticed that the black-garbed man was nowhere to be seen.

His mission was of utmost secrecy. Few knew why he had gone and thought he had left them. Their fear made them turn from him, scrutinize him. What did it tell them when their general left with so much at stake and with Rosalie bedbound? Before the end of the week, another lord left together with his three hundred men.

Many ignored that Isabella Swan had stayed behind. Their illogical train of thought did not make them see clearly and the council was pushing both her and Rosalie Fell to reveal where Edward had disappeared to.

"A man cannot simply vanish off the face of the earth," Glovendale had mumbled to Athar one evening as they sat in his chambers.

Lord Athar pushed the white hairs away from his face. He remembered the haunted look on Lady Swan's face, the pale lips, the fatigued complexion. He feared the worst and let his own fright grab hold of him—Edward Cullen couldn't possibly have just left them. No, he would not lose faith in that man. Athar refused to believe that Rosalie and Isabella were covering for him. But whenever he brought up his name, he merely received a tight-lipped mumble before they hastily continued onto the next topic.

"I am getting too old for this."

Theodor heard it in his cousin's voice, the thinness in it. Something eerie lurked in it, started embracing it.

"Nonsense, you'll outlive us all," Glovendale snickered. It caused a low chuckle to rumble in the white-haired man sitting opposite him.

"I never thought I'd live through all of this." A hint of regret passed through the thin voice. Athar stared out the window, the thick glass blocking out the last summer breeze. Autumn had started eradicating the warmth. He tapped his boot mindlessly against the carpet, creating a thud echoing throughout the room. The figures in the old tapestries sought them out with their hollow eyes. A painting was up against the wall, old and torn. The copy was badly made, but he recognized the faded visage of his old friend.

Athar looked away from the face of Philip, wondering if he was judging him from beyond the grave. He could not remember how the king had looked in his youth anymore—and, yet, Athar had known Philip in his prime. He took great pride in that. He recalled the days of old, the days when all was well; when intrigue was simply a minor animosity between two brothers. How could they ever have foreseen that this would come to pass?

"Is that how he truly looked?" Glovendale asked his older cousin, pointing at the painting. He had never asked Athar about Philip. Few ever did, for they knew the old man missed him terribly. Almost thirty years had passed since his death and the old lord still felt like it was yesterday.

Athar dragged his gray eyes from the dull painting and remarked how the whole room grew dull to him. No color stood out. Instead, they all mixed together—one canceling the other out until they became a brown mess. And at the center of it all was Philip's painting.

He took a moment to think—fearing the question posed to him. Athar searched long and hard within himself, trying to grasp at straws, trying to recall what his friend had once been. He ignored the frail old man Philip had been leading up to his death, the wrinkled visage that had known nothing but sorrow since Marianne Fell had passed.

That had never been Philip. He looked further back. "No, no painting will ever truly reflect how he looked." Even Theodore felt the weight of those words. He looked expectant, wondering if he would hear more. The gray eyes trailed to him and, suddenly, the thinness to his voice and fatigue in his eyes washed away. His gaze softened, and a warmth grew in it at the memories coursing through him.

"The paintings of him were always so severe—so _regal_. And Philip was regal, a king in all sense and purpose. But what left a larger impression on us all was the man _behind_ the crown." Athar stopped tapping his boot on the carpet. "I looked up to him." He was speaking mostly to himself than to Theodor. "Anyone who came to know him looked up to him, despite his faults."

"Philip Fell had no faults," Theodore added.

"King Philip had no faults, no. But the man; what was flesh and blood, held many. Just like any of us. And he accepted that. But there was one mistake which would affect those he loved more dearly than he could ever imagine. His insatiable pride and blindness." Athar stopped speaking before his voice broke.

"Many years have passed since his death, Athar," Theodor murmured into the silence.

"To me, it feels like yesterday." Athar still remembered Philip's last words to him. " _Until tomorrow_ ". Athar wondered if Philip had said that, knowing he was going to die a few hours later.

Suddenly he chuckled, the act involuntary. His cousin gave him a strange stare.

"I gave him a cup of wine the night of his death—despite the physicians strongly against him drinking any form of alcohol. But the fool lit up when he saw what I'd brought him."

Theodor understood and joined in on the chuckle as well. "You may rest easy then, cousin, knowing that you were by his side, faithful and helping until the end."

The words were meant to inspire. But Leonore Valois Fell had not been so lucky. Athar had taken it upon himself to rescue the queen and her unborn child. And he had failed in his task—thus he had failed Philip.

His visage turned grim once more.

* * *

The day passed on.

On the other side of the castle, working through the maze of the inner building, sat two women in silent company in a stuffy room.

One lay in her bed, overexerted. Another sat in a chair, staring silently out the opened window. Isabella had wanted to plead to Edward, force him to stay behind. She was frightened of what would happen when he returned.

And Rosalie was too.

Would it make a difference if he came back? What if they had acted too late?

Rosalie's cough brought her attention away from the picturesque scenery displaying before her and back to the reality of that infernal room. She went to sit next to her and dapped her feverish forehead with a cool cloth of water.

"I have sent for Sofia," Isabella whispered kindly.

The vivid colors dancing outside the window held Rosalie's eyes captive. She had ignored them for long, weighed down by fear and duty.

"Forgive me," her tired voice cracked.

Isabella looked at the meadow stretching to Hayes and Raven's Grove. The once frightening and obscure forest now held many warm memories for her. She gripped the fabric of her gown.

"There is nothing to forgive," she whispered back just as the door opened. Sofia stepped in, ready to help the princess. The old woman was as silent as always, guarding her words well.

"I forced him into this," Rosalie said as Sofia moved closer to her, her raven eyes mysterious and deep.

Isabella got up to leave the room. "Maybe it should have been done sooner." She paused at the door as her eyes met with Sofia's. She noted the sadness now present in them.

"I am not the only one who loves him," she whispered, looking straight at the gypsy whose mouth turned into a thin line. Sofia had, after all, cared for him and stood by his side longer than they. Isabella cast her eyes down before shutting the door behind her.

* * *

 **A/N: Hi! So... this unplanned hiatus kind of happened... Sorry! But I updated now at least :D I hope you liked this chapter. I am just trying to make sense of the end of this story as everything coming together is hard to put into writing-it works in my head, I just need for it to work on paper as well hehe. I think I've re-written the final chapters at least three times the past few weeks. Ting all the plots together proved to be harder than expected. Anyways, if you enjoyed this chapter let me know by leaving a little review ;)**

 **Cheers!**


	19. Chapter 19

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 19_

 _September 24_ _th_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

"But if not even I, your right-hand man, knows about Edward Cullen's whereabouts, then who does?" Athar begged. Two weeks had passed since Edward left them and great worry now stirred the lands. "The lords and officers grow restless that we have not made any plans to face Victoria once more, and that your most trusted general is away somewhere."

"When he returns you will understand," Rosalie murmured, pushing past the headache. Athar was relieved that she was recovering. The color had returned to her face, her dress was more filled out now as she had regained some of her lost weight.

Athar leaned in, trying to make her see sense. "Do you not understand the urgency? You will soon find yourself without an army if you do not give your lords an explanation. They are afraid…afraid that Cullen has abandoned you for some unknown reason—"

"Are _you_ also afraid, Lord Athar?" she snapped as she faced him. She had no mind for patience anymore.

Athar straightened a little. "I remain loyal to your cause," he said with insult lacing his voice. "And I trust in Cullen," he continued. "But why this secrecy?"

She sighed and placed a hand on her forehead to somehow still the ache that kept drumming behind it. Her eyes were pinned shut and she clamped the arm of her chair. "In due time, Lord Athar, you shall know it all. Now," she looked up at him with demand in her eyes. "I need my rest," she excused herself. It was all she ever said when she wanted to be alone.

He would not go against her wishes and soon bowed, leaving the princess alone. There was something greatly amiss, something hidden from him. Athar could not help but feel insulted at the fact—that she would not entrust him with whatever secrets she was keeping.

And he was not the only one who was curious. Many in Adelton kept gossiping about Cullen's disappearance. One day he had been there and the next he had vanished like smoke. Some speculated that he had been spirited away. Others joked that he was part ghost. But most knew there was a third reason, a reason they could not yet fully comprehend or figure out. But they refused to believe that he had abandoned them.

Friar Nicholas held faith in the general, and he hushed down those who expressed irritation at the masked man whenever in mass or during confession. He did not know why Edward was away, but he trusted in him, despite what he knew of him.

Jacob had kept away from most of his fellow soldier. He either accompanied Isabella on her daily walk in the gardens or he stalked the library. Sometimes, he helped señora Sofia in the Palas, where he had once lain wounded. Those weeks of constant questioning had been unbearable to him. He kept telling the same old tale: he had no idea where Edward Cullen was.

His only mission, for the time being, was to find who had poisoned Isabella and Rosalie. But the track had gone cold, and Jacob feared he had lost the rogue who had done it.

Lord Saxton and Rajac sought him out that same afternoon. They cornered him and wanted answers of Edward's whereabouts—agitated, almost desperate for him to say _something_.

"I am as much in the dark as you are," Jacob retorted.

Rajac scoffed, the slash across his face severe. He looked wild, agitated, consumed by his hatred for the war, for Victoria. "I have seen better liars in Wessport, my friend." He pointed an accusing finger at the young man. " _You_ know where he is," he growled.

"Keeping this from us, from all of us, is a great mistake, Jacob," Emmett said as he stepped past the agitated Rajac. "Edward is also our friend. I know you have gone through a lot more with him. But just disappearing like this, being the Field Marshal—it is…unsettling. And it raises questions."

"You question his loyalty?" Jacob asked as he tensed up.

"I would never dare to—" Saxton began before Rajac cut him short.

"Yes, I question him. We have all placed a great amount of trust in him. It is a hope that he would, together with Rosalie, take down Victoria so that we could retake Wessport—"

"And you will see your wife again," Jacob filled in. "Listen Rajac, I know you fear for her. I know you wish to see Victoria dethroned so that Amalia and you—all of us, can live in a better Angloa. We all wish that. But will telling you where Edward is make a difference? Will you rush there to get him if you knew?" Jacob asked in earnest.

"So you _do_ now!" Rajac exclaimed, angered.

"I never said I knew where he was, and you are ignoring my question," Jacob retorted, irritated.

Saxton stepped between the two. "No, it wouldn't make a difference. But knowing where he was, what he was up to, would be better than being kept in the dark," he said. "I see that there is nothing you can say or do to give us further information. Rajac, I think we should leave Jacob to it," he said with a slight frown on his features.

Unbearable, Jacob thought through gritted teeth as he watched their backs disappear. He would keep his mouth shut, but it would be difficult to say the least.

 _September 21_ _st_ _– New London_

She sat, as she always did, on her throne overlooking the room. Victoria had long since ordered Quinn be cast out of the palace of New London to loiter on the streets or wherever he wished to go to sulk. She would not tolerate the man who had lost Cadherra to be in her presence.

The throne room was larger than the one in Wessport. Its roof reached for the skies. The floor was of polished white marble with a wide black walkway lined in gold cutting through. It reached the whole way to marble steps leading up to the plateau where the throne sat. Just before the throne, high in the roof, a crystal dome let the rays of the sun shine in from directly above. Great pillars in white and black led the walk from the massive mahogany doors to the plateau; the nave of the room.

It was like walking in a forest of marble. The palace of New London had been built to inspire great awe in whoever stepped his or her foot in that room. Perhaps the only other building that was on par with the great palace was the massive cathedral with its blue rooftops, touching the skies.

"We await your command, Your Majesty," Launël said with impatience. "We have been waiting for your command for months."

"Your sister dared attack New London, we can no longer hold off a counterattack on her," Savoie said in agreement.

She stared across the vast room, thick wax candles illuminated where the tall windows facing north could not. She had sent some troops to the border and crushed the last resistance in Sorossa. But she did not wish to fight against Rosalie, not so closely. She had received reports that Rosalie was getting better. Alistair had deflected any unwanted ties with the whole ordeal.

"Cullen has left Adelton Hall!" another lord exclaimed. It caught her attention.

"What?" she asked. "He would never leave in her hour of need." Something deep within her boiled. How could he abandon her sister now? If someone could protect Rosalie it was Edward. But if even _he_ had left her, Victoria was afraid her sister would be abandoned to the wolves.

"Weeks ago, he was seen no more in Adelton or Hayes. They say he left for Coldwick, but reports tell he was spotted near Maesir just last week."

"Why would he travel there? What could he possibly hope to find there?" Savoie asked.

She drummed her fingernails, the sharp tap against the wood echoing against the stone lining the room. Victoria crossed her legs and felt the silk of her dress shuffle with her. Her bosom heaved in a deep sigh and she squeezed her eyes as some sunrays pressed through the tall windows to her left.

"Send a small platoon to search for him. If we are lucky, we might capture him," she ordered. But he was the least of her problems.

"What of the English?" Victoria moistened her dry lips at their mention.

The lips of most present pressed together uncomfortably in agonizing silence.

"Last I heard they took a hefty strike against Durun's rebels who I believe fled further south from Castell. As far as I know, the north is in the hand of the English if we do not stop them."

"We need to send our own man to speak with them. Durun will not be able to hold them long. Before we know it, the English might have Wessport," Savoie prompted.

"Perfect," Victoria purred. "Then why don't you go, my lord? You seem apt for the mission."

Savoie's features paled visibly as he frowned. "Your Majesty, I would not be—"

"God will accompany on your journey and grant you his strength," Thorpe spoke with a small smirk present on his features. He never spoke much, but when he did, half of the room wanted to beat him bloody while the other half had to fight against their own smirks. In this case, Victoria was the other half.

"You heard Cardinal Thorpe. I want to speak with you before you go, Savoie, of a most urgent message I wish for you to personally relay to whoever is in charge of the English."

Savoie was about to protest, but when he saw her angered face stare down at him from the raised marble steps, he backed down and bowed. He had succumbed to her wishes.

"And what of Adelton?" Launël asked once more. "Do we strike or not?"

Victoria thought hard and long about it. If Launël wanted to march upon Cadherra, she knew he did it out of a good reason. He was a seasoned war-veteran and was sure to know when to strike. She nodded in approval. "Very well, we shall take back Cadherra from my sister." And then she looked over the vast crowd of loyal lords. "But if my sister comes to harm during this battle, whoever so much as touches a hair on her head will lose their limbs," she sneered with a sour undertone.

They all nodded nervously. But many felt the growing anticipation of crushing the rebel sister so that they might march on the north. They wondered if Rosalie Fell was aware of the storm heading her way. Thorpe smirked even more. He looked at Victoria and was very pleased with how things were playing out.

 _September 24_ _th_ _– Erida, south of Castell_

"Keep pushing back, keep pushing back!" a strangled and hoarse voice cracked through the splashing raindrops. They ran through the mud, past the small town drowned by flames licking its very foundation. The heavy rains managed to slowly tame hot flames, but the damage was too large. The town was already scorched, its churches, town hall and distinguished buildings stood only a shadow of what they had been. Blackened buildings outlined the gray landscape. In the distance, the rebels saw the amassing army coming their way. They had managed to halt them for weeks, but the English had taken Castell, a feat that had not been made since their last war. And they were pressing into the country, past Erida. They were now on firm Angloan soil and held their footing.

Durun watched as the rain splashed against his saddened features while the invader pressed forward. They had fought, many had died. But, finally, they had succumbed.

He took whatever was left of his men to the forest lining the southeastern coast. The troops would no doubt be heading for Wessport now. And Durun knew that however horrible Victoria Fell was, he did not wish to see an independent Angloa fall and turn into a colony again.

Astride his horse, the proud lord gripped its reigns tight. In a few weeks, their capital would no doubt fall while two sisters played for their silly throne. What had once been Angloa would cease if he did not do something.

The rebels ran into the woods like wounded animals, ready to lick their wounds. His leftennant, Trienne, had been one of the first to fall. Durun gritted his teeth in silent agony. Many of his friends were no more. And many more would fall, no doubt.

They pushed past the wet and heavy foliage. Through the rain they discerned the sudden cease in movements from the English troops. It seemed they were themselves setting up fortifications just south of Erida.

The rain grew sparse and just as they all sat on the muddy and moss-covered ground, many came to realize what they had witnessed. He saw some of them cry out for lost friends, he saw some shaking in uncontrollable fear. Others shook from the cold that had penetrated their bodies. Some fell to the ground, their wounds stealing their lifeforce from them. There were no more than some sixty men left in his rebel army.

"What now?" a tired voice asked him. Another soldier, the many faces of those who followed him started to look the same: tired, deprived of any comfort. But the hint of an inextinguishable will still remained. And it was enough for Durun. He knew that as long as the flame remained in their eyes, they would continue the fight. He hoped they would remain loyal after what he was about to say.

"We head for Wessport," he muttered in a subdued voice.

Many heads turned his way in confusion. All the rebels wanted to ask him the same thing. Durun stared out over the small sea of men and asked them to gather. Some remained on the ground. Three did not move at all. They had succumbed to the whispers of the reaper as their lifeless eyes stared at the golden and ruby crowns heavily drooping with the rains falling from a crying sky.

"You are all loyal men to Angloa," he stated to the fifty-seven still standing. "Loyal enough to go against Victoria," he continued. Durun had to swallow the bile. He still remembered what the English commander had revealed to them without a single care in the world. Lord Percy Beauchamp had fought as a Marshal during the last was as well. He had asked for Edward Cullen, to see his old foe as if he were asking for an old friend.

They all paled at the information he had so carelessly revealed to them: that Victoria Fell had asked the English to help her with resources for the Angloan throne. And in return, she would deliver them an obedient state. On paper, Angloa would remain independent. But informally…she would bend to the wishes of her former colonizers.

They had believed it from the moment they had heard it. It was therefore that they all stared at their leader with questioning faces as he asked them to leave for the capital where a traitor held her court.

"Victoria is in New London. We go to Wessport because we need to warn them," he explained. "They won't care who we are when they hear that the English are at their doorstep. The northern lords—those who are not currently in New London—must all ally together now and fight; regardless if they are for Victoria or for Rosalie. By the time their war of succession has come to an end, there will be no throne left for anyone," he growled through gritted teeth.

Muted faces of speechless men stood before him with realization slowly but surely setting in. And that they; fifty-seven wounded and harrowed men should manage to join not only the north, but the city of Wessport to fight alongside them was already a miracle.

But they saw no other way. Going south and joining Rosalie would be considered the easy way out. Not having to deal with the problem in the north would be better than facing the facts: that the conflict in the south held a smaller note of importance.

And another fact remained; that Edward Cullen was no longer seen in Adelton Hall. The rumors were that he had not been in Wessport for almost a month. And they wondered, as the summer storms turned into autumn rains, if he had abandoned the princess he had so loyally followed until now.

 _September 26_ _th_ _– Adelton Hall_

Faced with any other situation would have been easier than this. Having them all question Edward was hard. But Rosalie remained silent. And so did Isabella.

Despite herself, she sought out the company of the older princess. They would often sit together in the gardens and watch summer drift by with a sigh. It had passed too quickly, they thought. Rosalie would see the nostalgia of childhood memories break through Isabella's otherwise stiff mask. She would see her play stiffly with the folds of her dress. The temperatures had started dropping as the leaves of the trees started yellowing. It was gradual, but they could already feel the grip of darkness and coldness seeping in, like tendrils gripping, sucking the life out of summer. The flowers started dying, the summer storms were now soon turned into autumn rains.

A silent agreement had passed between the two. They would not say where Edward was until the apt time presented itself. And it was not yet come.

They, of course, did not know what was happening in the far north of their country. Communications had been cut off north of Wessport. The English had claimed Castell and Erida and no one was the wiser in the south. Maybe if they had known, they would have acted differently.

Maybe, if Rosalie had gotten that information, she would have joined forces with her sister to fight off the invader.

But that was not the case. And the mere thought that Rosalie would ever fight alongside her sister was almost nonexistent.

The day was a sunny one, a breath of fresh air in between the now graying skies as they faced the last days of September. It was still reasonably warm, only at night did they notice the coolness creeping in.

Isabella slipped through the gardens silently. Her gown in muted reds trailed after her. In the grasp of her hands, she held a letter. An unopened letter.

She had received it early that morning and stared at it for a full hour, not really wanting to see its contents. A part of her feared what the words would say. But another anxiously wanted to read it until her eyes tired.

There was no name on the front, only a wax seal that she recognized all too well; the seal of Cadherra. Edward had written that letter. And, thus, with it came news they had waited for for more than a month.

Rosalie knew what it was before Isabella had even sat down. They were alone, left to their own thoughts. For few were those who bothered Her Royal Highness and the Countess of Cadherra.

"I did not think we would have word from him this soon," Rosalie whispered. She did not dare speak out loud, afraid anyone would hear them.

Isabella nodded, pensive. "What surprises me more is that there have been no rumors circulating yet," she added, still clutching the letter. A hand came to rest over the tense hand. She looked into the bright eyes, the faint crow's feet revealing Rosalie's older age.

"All will be well, Isabella," she promised. There was a strange comfort to the words that soothed the younger woman. She nodded and settled on the stone bench. Isabella handed her the letter and watched the princess break the seal. There was a moment of hesitance before the princess opened it, looking at the contents. It was several pages of parchment with small lettering scribbled, as if a great deal of information had to be written down in a short amount of time. But, even without reading it, Isabella recognized Edward's handwriting.

The more Rosalie read, the more her mouth opened, and her eyebrows started arching. Her heartbeat sped up as her hands shook, finally breaking free from the contents, only to catch Isabella's confused gaze.

And there was no way to explain what she had just read. Rosalie settled down, overlooking some parts of the letter clearly meant for Isabella. She finally handed it over and let the young woman read.

Isabella read like she never had before. She was brought on a rollercoaster of emotions as her eyes grazed the pages and discerned each and every letter he had written down. She could not help a small smile as she read the loving words he had directed at her. Her heart cried out as she finally realized how much she missed having him by her side. Isabella had been so occupied by worrying about his departure that she had pushed aside the fact that she missed him. And with every paragraph, her smile grew softer and gentler.

She finally put down the read and now folded letter, letting the midday silence settle in slowly. Isabella and Rosalie Fell then proceeded to look at one another in silent agreement.

"I will gather them this evening," Rosalie said.

"Will you tell them everything?" Isabella asked. Her sister in law shook her head.

"Only what they need to know to stay a bit longer in Cadherra."

"Do you think they will…believe you?" Isabella asked. She knew the question might be perceived as insulting. But it was something she had wondered a long time. How would they all react once they found out?

"They will," Rosalie answered, decided.

Isabella took the letter and proceeded to take her daily walk while Rosalie started leaving for the castle. The princess turned away before they were separated. "Burn it once you return to your chambers. The fewer who read it, the better," she said.

"I was just heading there to do it," Isabella nodded, saddened that the beautiful words would be lost in the licking flames of her chimney.

* * *

The vast room that had once been used by her forefathers to gather council was now dim in the light of the odd thirty wax candles. The rounded walls allowed for no darkened corners. One window let in the golden light of dusk as the sun set.

Around fifteen men, trusted and good servants of the crown, walked in. They all sensed the tension, the premonition that something was wrong. Electricity sparked in the air as the whispers of another storm drew closer.

Rosalie sat closest to the window, facing the door as they spilled in. She sat on the short end of the long rectangle table. Glovendale sat on her left while Athar on her right. Fawkes was there too, as well as Saxton and Rajac. A handful, about five or so, lords from Coldwick were there, for they had kept several of Victoria's ships at bay when she had planned to invade from the east. Some southern nobles remained. Not with high titles, but they were loyal. And two men from Sorossa now sat at her table, good men who served faithfully.

Together they presented Rosalie's council, those who had not faltered by her side. But some were missing. Lord Tyris was gone, together with Wilson and other prevalent lords from Sorise. The rest of the south had decided to not join the princess in her fight.

The wax candles cast long shadows on Rosalie's face. They were almost eerie. The golden light of dusk now faintly bathed the room and shone behind her, strangely illuminated her together with the candles.

They waited before speaking, for she was still their Royal Princess after all. Rosalie gained some poise, drawing out the moment until they succumbed to the silence. She needed to know that none would interfere as she spoke, that had to be made perfectly clear to them. And it appeared so.

"You have all been asking me about the whereabouts of Edward Cullen for the past month," she said, her unwavering voice breaking the fragile silence. Athar sat rigid, uncomfortable as if he was not ready to hear whatever she planned to reveal.

"You know where he is," Saxton stated with a neutral expression. Rosalie locked eyes with him for a moment, something unspoken passed between the two, almost unnoticeable save by Athar, Fawkes, and Rajac.

There had been time to prepare a grandiose speech, time to think out how she should best step forward with her story."

"Lord Athar, I think it is due time we reveal to the lords here what has been kept not only from them, but from most of Angloa for the better part of three decades." Her eyes found his gray ones and Athar's face was a stiff mask of undiscernible emotions all mixed together. Why was Rosalie Fell bringing up such a tragic past now? His forehead wrinkled with the weight of her words. It was a secret he had kept from everyone for almost thirty years. But somehow Rosalie had found out by some miraculous feat. And color drained from his features. Athar wondered if she now somehow blamed him for the whole ordeal—blamed him for the death of her half-sister.

The eyes of the crowd sought him out in the dull golden light. And almost three decades rushed through his old body in seconds. They aged his limbs, his mind, his soul.

Jasper, whom he had kept the secret from out of fear that the child might be alive and fighting against him, was gone. He wondered if having told Jasper the entire truth might have saved him instead. Athar figured there were no more secrets to keep. Rosalie seemed decided to share something as well. He would show her the respect he held for her.

Dry lips were moistened with the tip of his tongue as he spoke. Deep within his being, the old man's voice emerged in cracks of fear and pain. Strangely, Athar found that the more he opened up, the more he said, the lighter the pressure on his shoulders became. The strangest thing was that, as he spoke, some faces did not retain the look of surprise of which he had expected. There were those in that crowd who _knew_.

The immediate solitude of Philip after Marianne's passing, the lack of stability in Angloa and Magnus' claim to the throne rang throughout a stuffy room of severe faces and pursed lips. Leonore Valois was mentioned and in the rapid telling of years of occurrences, he paused. Athar remembered the beauty who had arrived in Adelton Hall, the willful woman who had obeyed her father in marrying an old king without as much as a protest. Shadows passed over their faces, many looking down at the table, Rosalie's hands clasped in her knees. Maybe they all came to the same realization as Athar—that Leonore had unknowingly given up her freedom for a lost cause.

The cloth of his doublet rustled while he kept on talking. Leonore Valois, the young bride of Philip Fell. Leonore Valois, who was pregnant when Philip passed. Leonore Valois who had been whisked away to a hidden location. A strange thickness laced his voice as he spoke of Wilma, of the night the small princess had been born. He retold every detail, just as he remembered it. Athar shivered at the picture he painted, shivered at the solitude Leonore must have gone through while giving birth to her daughter, despite her confidant being by her side. He paused and read the room.

While some seemed aware of the child, other's eyes glued to him with paling expressions. Fawkes' boots pressed hard into the cold floor as a gust of wind invaded the room. Flickering candles cast longer shadows, the golden light of sunset long gone. The secret Athar had hidden for so long was strangely revealed to them and many did not know how to process it.

Athar's eyes crossed with Rosalie's, the grays of his orbs shining with a dulled pain at the relived memories. No one spoke, for no one dared to break the strange spell his story held over them. And Athar continued, his voice shaking as he spoke of Wilma Valois Fell, a beautiful child, a strong child who grew to present traits her father had held. He paused, guilt rushing through him. The old man before them aged yet again under the pressure.

His long fingers traced the finished wood of the table. He could still clearly remember the black smoke floating up into the sky. Wisps of it danced in the gentle winds. Some flames still remained, licking the remnants of the cottage; now a black silhouette against the calm woods and meadow. The wood cracked still, a beam somewhere cried under the pressure of the almost nonexistent roof. He clearly remembered getting off his horse and rushing to the remnants of the building. His aide had stopped him, but Athar had frantically tried to reach it, hoping to find survivors. When a supporting beam gave way, breaking with a shrill, sending the building collapsing, he had fallen to his knees.

The worst was the smell. A sickly stench of burnt wood and sulfur, so strong he had perceived it miles away.

Athar cleared his throat with difficulty. "There I stood for a while, my folly having cost Wilma Fell and her mother their lives."

Smiling emerald eyes of a little girl still haunted him sometimes. He did not know what to expect from the men present in that stuffy room. Perhaps condescension, resent, anger. But some were still so shocked at his revelation that there was no room for any other emotions.

Saxton was the first to break the unbearable tension. "Why did you not send them to France?" A remnant of accusation was almost present in the proud lord's voice.

When Athar's face met Saxton's, he was taken aback by the present agony lining his features. "I told myself then that Rebecca would find them in France, I told myself that they would be better hidden in Angloa." He clasped his hands. "I was wrong," Athar growled.

Perhaps he should have lashed out. But Saxton could see that Athar had lived with a hidden guilt for decades.

An impenetrable silence made the room shift their attention back to the regal princess poised at the short end of the table. She knew what the next question would be. They all wondered tightlipped why she had brought such a thing up. Athar took in her features, blurred in the muted flicker of candles. Stars penetrated through the open windows, but they did not manage to fully shine through the thin layer of black clouds lining the heavens.

She took in their faces and said a silent prayer. Rosalie had never felt so exposed, so alarmed at what she was about to share with them. But there was no turning back. Her chest expanded with a forced intake of breath.

"The child of Leonore Valois was never born a girl." She imagined her voice would have sounded weak in the presence of so many prevalent men. She imagined it would shake. But the tones were clear and neutral. Glovendale frowned in solidarity with her. "It was a boy." Golden orbs came to rest on Athar, wanting to discern his reaction; almost afraid of what it would be.

They clung to every breath she took, every blink, how her eyes scanned their faces in anticipation. They leaned without knowing it, leaned forward with their bodies and their spirits. Fawkes' mouth had gone dry. Beneath his padded doublet, the hairs on his arms had started rising in expectation. The old general had never imagined he could be taken off guard. But together with the other fourteen men present in that room, they all felt it; the thick, unbearable tension as she spoke.

"And I have sent Edward Cullen to get him." Her voice rasped now, like a dragon's breath having just roasted them alive with her words.

Sweat pearled down Athar's brow, slowly working to drench his temples. It was as if his body ignored the chill penetrating the room, oozing from the thick stones lining the rounded room with no corners.

She turned fully to face him, but all Athar could see was Philip Fell's face breaking through hers. "He was never killed on that day." He heard the voice, he saw the lips move, but it was all so distant. Athar lost touch with reality as he paled, as his body shook.

The rest of them processed the words as well.

Philip Fell had a son, and he was alive.

* * *

 **A/N: I thought I'd give you a little suprise! Another chapter update! Since I had a long hiatus (only three weeks, but who's counting?), I thought I'd at least give you another chapter for the time being :) I hope you enjoyed this once as well. Thrilled as always to read your reviews and the interesting throughts and theories you express in them! Let me know what you thought of this one :)**

 **Cheers!**


	20. Chapter 20

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 20_

 _October 1st, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

"What is the first thing you wish to do? When all of this is over, I mean." Rain smacked heavily against the windows. A scent of metal was prevalent, mixed with wet hay and mud. The fire cracked big logs in the background, the smoky scent mixing, forming a strange yet soothing perfume.

She looked more serene than before. Her rigid posture made her seem like a doll in that long chair. Isabella had stopped braiding her hair ever since returning to Adelton Hall. She wore it down more often, letting the curls fall softly against her back. But today it was up, away from her face. A bun laced with sparkling pearls rounded her hair like a diadem. She started wearing gowns with longer sleeves now that autumn was upon them. The bodice and skirt were in a faded orange with a darker damask pattern, almost resembling gold. A slit opened up in the front to reveal the plain skirt beneath, in a similar color, only brighter.

She dressed more befitting her station now, Jacob thought as he took in the sight of her. She dressed like a countess. And Isabella had the air of one too. When she walked down the hallways of her castle, the servants would curtesy or bow, the lords would nod in respect. She was often seen roaming the grounds with Princess Rosalie.

A great change had seemingly befallen her, a change of maturity that had not been there before, as if she had started settling down. Renée's heart had grown lighter once she realized it. The pain and anger present in her daughter's eyes when she had returned with Edward from Constantinople had faded, the tired and fatigued woman was not there anymore. She looked the woman now as if her experience finally had made her settle down. The transformation was gradual, and most did not notice it right away. It had grown bit by bit, ever since they had returned to Wessport.

His question drew her attention away from the book. She kept it far away, much further than usual. Ever since falling sick, she did not trust in the dust that would occasionally rise up from them. Isabella wiped off some that had landed on her white sleeve.

Her chocolate eyes glanced about the room; the library that had once been the domain of her father. Now it all belonged to her. "Start over," she finally said. Her voice was void of much emotion, but a gentle smile spread across her features. "Return to what we had before." Memories of a flourishing childhood sprung across her eyes.

She looked at him. "What will you do?" Removing the unwanted attention away from herself.

"I had little direction before the war," Jacob smirked. "And when I met Edward, I knew I would stand by his side." He had already thought out his answer. "When all of this is over, I plan to remain by his side, if that is here in Cadherra or in Wessport with Rosalie is of little concern to me."

The answer sparked a sad chuckle in Isabella; like she held some information that had not been revealed to him yet. "Would you not wish to start your own family?" she asked. "Or be with yours?"

Jacob leaned further into the cushioned fauteuil, sitting close to the warmth of the fireplace. He had his left ankle resting lazily on his right knee, suspending his whole left leg from the knee down, supported. It made him look casual, relaxed. "I'm still young," he chuckled back. "As for my family…" Jacob trailed off.

"You said you were the fourth brother once," she started. "Remember? It was when mother and I had just arrived back to Cadherra with Alice, and you spoke of your father and brothers." Her lips spread.

But it did not cause the same effect with Jacob. A shadow grew across his face and he turned it away from her. "I have no interest in meeting them. We have each our different lives to live now." He paused slightly. "My father is a great man in his own sense. But he lives in a world in which I do not belong."

She did not pry further on the matter, however much his sudden change in demeanor intrigued her. Isabella had noticed before that whenever Jacob's family—especially his father—was mentioned, he would quickly change the subject.

"But the war must end first," Isabella added haphazardly. The rhythm of the rain grew with intensity, its drumming soon overpowering the roar of the fire.

"It will end," Jacob said. "It has to end." Never had she seen someone so determined before in her life.

 _September 29th – Wessport_

Fogs were common this time of year. The watch guards would usually try to scare the newcomers with made-up stories about the specters that wandered within them. It was early morning and five of them had been huddling around the torches during the night. They kept themselves entertained by speaking of the current state of Angloa.

Wessport stood in the hands of Savoie who had been sent back by Victoria to speak with the English. They were still stationed in Castell, the last that was heard. No new messages had arrived in weeks.

But what really caught their interest was the commotion down south. The disappearance of Edward Cullen was still on the tongues of them all—from rich to poor, from sinner to virtuous—they all spoke of it. Apparently, Victoria was moving her vast army from New London to Hayes and Adelton through Raven's Grove. It was the end of Rosalie, for she had not been able to gather the southern lords to her side. She had lost the fight against her sister and, thus, the resistance had been crushed. Such news served to break the spirit of many who cheered for her in secret. Some of the guards there did not voice it, but they too had secretly prayed for her success. One, in particular, remembered the day of Jasper Fell's murder, how Victoria Fell had ordered him beheaded. It had been enough for him to see what she truly was.

Alas, mouths kept shut, as if sewn closed by a metal thread. No one spoke, no one speculated. But the toasts to Rosalie Fell did happen, in secret, within their minds. They drank to her health, to her success. Just as they drank to Cullen, to Athar, to Fawkes, Saxton, and Rajac. And they even drank to Lord Durun, the keeper of the north.

Oliver took another long chug of the vile liquid. The alcohol was of low standards, but it kept him and his fellow soldiers warm. His raven eyes kept watch beyond his crooked nose. Another sip downed the burning amber liquid, its heat spreading in his tummy like a faint fire.

"Look!" someone suddenly hissed. Shuffling sounded as they stood up, away from the torches, looking out beyond the fog. The specters were supposedly tales to frighten newcomers and children of Wessport. Indeed, Wessport was the capital, but under Magnus, it had grown sullied by his hand. And they said that the ghosts of Rebecca and Magnus' executioner circled the outer wall. Mayhap the ghosts of Victoria's own butcher had brought them back.

A lone figure was discerned against the grayness of the early morning. His outlines were blurry—as if between their world of flesh and blood and the far beyond. One of the newer guards audibly gulped. Oliver did not blame him. For even if he liked to think of himself as a reasonable man, the figure nearing the northeastern gates of the city did not appear of this world.

"Who goes there!" he shouted, aiming his crossbow. The armory was depleted due to the war and they were forced to use older weapons ever since Victoria had left the city. He tried to hide the shaking in his hands, held the weapon steady—aiming it at the figure. "State your name!" Oliver demanded, louder.

The figure kept nearing, but now with its hands clearly visible over its head. They started discerning sharper lines as it left the fog. They saw outlines of a face down below, the ruffled hair, the unkempt dark beard, thrashed clothes clogged with mud. He went up to the gate and defiantly stared up at them.

"I need to speak to Otto Savoie," the stranger rasped. A shadow stretched across his features, signs of fatigue and desperation hinted that something was very wrong. Oliver was about to ask who he was when one of his fellow guards gasped.

"T-that is Viscount Durun," he whispered to them. "Walter Durun!"

Oliver looked back at him. The one who had kept the English at bay was this man? This wretch before them, tattered and beaten to the bone was Walter Durun?

"Let me in," he demanded again, standing straighter. Walter _had_ to speak to Savoie. And he knew going there alone, without his men, would let him into the city. He did not, however, have the same reassurance that he would be let out again. If he could not get to Savoie in time, it might not be enough to warn him that the English were coming, and they might lose Wessport.

The guards, still baffled at his presence, soon disappeared, their crossbows with them and he squared his jaw. A long and tense moment passed. It might have been a second, it might have been an hour, but he did not move during it.

Creaking wood cried out into the foggy morning as the doors were opened. Wessport was about to let him enter; the damned city he had fled from only months before.

 _October 3rd – Raven's Grove_

They did not know the woods well. But Rosalie's forces were stretched thin. There would be few scouts patrolling, which would give them a head start. Alistair rode on the main road cutting through the woods, leading the way to Cadherra.

His smirk would not cease. Adelton Hall was just within their reach. He led the first wave, there to get past Hayes and set up the siege before the rest, led by Launël, would come.

Six thousand men, although not a large army, was more than enough to wipe out Rosalie's remaining forces. Alistair had grown ambitious. He figured he would show off and take Adelton Hall to impress Victoria. For he dearly wished to impress her. Ever since Braun had died, he had been ignored by her. Braun had been the brains, he was just another passenger. But now that he was away, Alistair would take his place—show that he was just as reliable, just as loyal.

In a few hours, they would arrive in the village. As the horses snorted and sound of rustling armor penetrated through the peace of the woods—the darkness within them alluring, haunting—his smirk grew wider. He would claim Adelton in the absence of Cullen. And he would make them all bend to their knees. The disfigured and pathetic little general would lose it all, of that he was certain.

* * *

The villagers did not even pack in fear that they would be overcome by the enemy. Scouts from Raven's Grove had ridden directly to them, shouted that they run for the castle for the enemy was coming.

Victoria's forces were coming.

It was a fear many of them had never known. Knowing that death lurked within the darkness of the woods, knowing bloodthirsty men would emerge and strike them down and rape and kill their women. By the time they had all rushed for the castle, Hayes looked like a ghost town. Carts were left in the streets; some chickens and cats ran around like usual. In the houses, some tables had been set for the midday meal. The Blacksmith's shop together with many other houses were still exuding smoke from their chimneys.

But the people were gone. All had fled without a second thought to Adelton. They had never lived through a battle—lived in a time of such conflict. But they knew what happened when an army raged through cities and towns. They knew what happened to the civilians. And no one wished that for their families.

Isabella had stood together with her mother, Alice, Nicholas, Alan and most of the castle servants, directing the lost townsfolk to the Palas where cots stood ready for them. The young woman guided families with crying and frightened children, preoccupied parents who wondered if they would ever see their homes stand the same again. It pained her to see them thus. She saw her mother with a gentle smile, trying to reassure them, welcoming them into their home. They were not nobility, aristocrats. They were just any other mother and daughter, working to help their neighbors in solidarity.

Athar stood together with Glovendale and Rosalie, watching the scene from down below the balcony. Their faces contorted in grim expressions, eyes darkening, skin creasing in frowns.

Victoria's forces could still not be heard, but it was just a matter of time before the cries of horses and men echoed through the valley. Rosalie stepped into her chamber, sitting down, her lips a blue hue, her skin lighter and clammy.

"Your Royal Highness?" Glovendale rushed to her side.

Athar kept his back to them, staring out at the horizon. Ever since Rosalie had revealed where Edward had gone, he had not slept. For days he had lain on his bed restless, not able to close his eyes. What if her statement had been true? He had gone over the memories each waking second. Athar had held the child, seen her bared before him. It had been a girl, that much was unmistakable.

But a part of him wanted to believe in Rosalie Fell, believe in that the child of Leonore was alive—that it had always been a son. Although Athar had been silently skeptic, others voiced their opinions rather forcefully. They had almost acted insulted that she would even suggest such a folly lie. Fawkes had stormed out of the room, for he feared what he would say otherwise. The information, he gathered, had been too much for his old friend. Some, those who had never known of Leonore's child, had stared at the princess dumfounded. Those who knew glared at the table—thinking it a dirty trick to keep them longer at her side. The only one who had not shown any type of emotion had been Saxton.

Athar left Rosalie with Glovendale and walked down the halls. There was not much to do in Adelton but wait for the enemy to come. He would stalk the halls in silent contemplation as maids and footmen rushed past him. Mrs. Hammond, the one in charge of the household, was always seen running up and down the castle stairs, for she seemed to be pulled in all directions.

Athar went into the Throne Room; desolate, empty: a ghost room of another era. The ancient throne still stood elevated, a relic of the past. He remembered that room, his youth in it. A youth that seemed millennia ago. Athar had always seen himself as an old man. Or maybe he had simply forgotten what it was to be young? His youth had been stolen from him when his wife had died.

Tall windows, obscured by a thin layer of dust and dried rainwater, let seep in the clouded rays of day.

But he was not alone. A man stood leaning against one of the windows, looking out in silent contemplation. His footsteps on the thin carpet of dust were the only ones in that room. It seemed few had set foot in it for the past few weeks. And the maids had not had the time to clean it.

Saxton did not turn when Athar came to stand by his side. "Raven's Grove is a fickle mistress," he murmured with a baritone voice—vibrations stirring the strange peace in that room; as if there should be no speech there.

"She hides the enemy now," he continued. "The tables have turned." Saxton scoffed at the irony. But Athar noted how he was just mentioning it to keep his mind off something else. The lord looked away from the forest that had been his home for so long.

They both knew what they truly wished to speak of. But none opened their mouth. Saxton's bright eyes grazed the edge of the forest, an unmistakable hint of sadness present in them. He had lost the only home he knew—the forest which had sheltered him since the end of the previous war.

"The poets of this land always described the halls of Aldea in New London as the most beautiful ones," Athar said, speaking of the palace in the old capital. "But I believe they did it because it was custom…" he trailed off. Athar looked at the impressive throne room, at the richness in décor, at the splendor in the throne. "They probably did it because they had never seen this place."

Saxton shifted, listening to Athar speak. They had a long partnership, working in secret ever since Athar had discovered the plot against Jasper. And now they stood here, in the Throne Room of Adelton Hall.

"I still remember when she first stepped foot in here." The room seemed to light up as it heard his words. The dust disappeared, and the dull light of wax candles that were not really there illuminated the grand hall. Athar turned to look at the entrance by the throne. "I still remember the first time Philip saw Leonore Valois." He paused. "She was the most beautiful woman I ever did lay eyes on."

"I never heard much about her at court," Saxton said, filling in the temporary silence.

"Rebecca Fell made sure that she was forgotten in the minds of the people. But some of us still remember her, remember who she was." He turned, heftily, facing Emmett. "But I saw that child, Emmett. I held it in my hands the same night she was born. And it was a girl that I held!" He could still not make sense of it. The white-haired old man felt like a fool in the presence of such confusing information. Saxton beheld him with compassion; like he shared the feeling.

"So, you do not believe in Her Royal Highness?" he asked carefully.

Athar shook his head, turning away from him. "I want to believe her." His pupils dilated visibly. "If Edward Cullen has indeed gone to search for the son of Philip and Leonore to bring him here, I…" Athar did not know what he would do, did not know how he would react. "But that is not possible, it cannot be."

"When I was a boy, roughly twenty years ago—" Emmett leaned against the window once more, staring at the forest in the distance. "—A woman came to my parent's country castle one day in early summer, carrying a wounded child, herself fatigued with great wounds too," he said pensively. "And my father took them in; as if he knew them. The woman tried to conceal their identities at first, but it was soon made clear who they were to my parents." Emmett turned to face Athar. "The woman's name was Claudine," he said.

A trembling lip fell, the old man's mouth agape. Emmett's father, Lord Saxton, had been in his fold, had been in his confidence. So why had he never told him that Claudine had passed by with a child?

"They stayed until both regained their strength. My father gave them some money and they set off for the continent. I never knew what happened after, and I never much thought about it until Her Royal Highness spoke of Leonore Valois' child. Well—" he trailed off, the guilty eyes catching his. "I might have suspected something before." He turned to the view once more.

The glass fogged slightly as he breathed against it. Saxton was in deep thought for a moment, lost in his own memory. He finally faced the old man, visibly shaken at the new information given to him. "I am not saying that I wouldn't have believed Her Royal Highness if I had not had this knowledge. But the proof I hold, tells me she is speaking the truth. Maybe the surviving child is not male—maybe it is. But all I know is that Leonore's child survived."

"And Cullen knows where she or he is," Athar whispered. He still remembered vividly when they had been in the dungeon of Wessport Palace and he had revealed the existence of that child. And Edward had known! He had known the whole time! Athar forced his eyes shut. And Rosalie must have known at some point—and she had chosen not to confide in him. Athar was left standing like a fool before them; the man none would trust in.

"He must have had a reason, Thomas." Saxton's back was rigid, tense. His broad shoulders slumped forward. "Time will tell."

"Victoria's forces will reach us before Cullen gets back," Athar sighed. "What difference will it make if we do not hold Adelton? We lose our footing and no legitimate heir, be he son or daughter, will command enough respect to unite the lords in a lost cause. They are not that loyal. Not anymore."

"Then we hold Adelton until he returns." Saxton stared at the forest with the sight of a hawk, let the green orbs trail each detail. "We are not completely useless without him," he tsked.

"We are barely two-thousand against a complete army—" Athar stopped himself. When had his own courage faltered so? When had his wisdom abandoned him? "Forgive me," he rambled. "The fears of an old man."

Saxton's eyes had remained on the same spot for the last few minutes. "We should alert the castle," he mumbled, his breath further fogging up the dirty window. Saxton turned away from the gray scenery. "They are almost here."

* * *

Fawkes and Saxton were in charge. Rajac kept most of the other officers in check as well. And their booming voices could be heard over the chaos emanating within the castle walls. Adelton Hall was built as a fortress to withstand any invasion. She could last long sieges. They'd had enough time to prepare, knowing a few days in advance what was coming. They had enough food to sustain them the winter.

Soldiers ran up and down along the outer courtyard. Footmen and pages scoured the castle for weapons. They found many down in the dungeons—ancient old relics that had not been used in decades; some were centuries old. Lances, pikes, bows, crossbows, zweihänder, smaller cannons—they might be old, but they would suffice.

Fawkes had been demoted from his position as Field Marshal. But in the absence of Cullen, the proud old general was once more filling that position. He walked around the castle grounds, relishing in the moments before battle.

Most soldiers there had never seen a siege before. This was a battle that they all would fight. The servants and soldiers alike. The pages were tasked with maintaining the weapons and ammunition. Those who had two good eyes and a decent aim were put on the walls. Some were as young as ten.

The women; maids and other servants, were tasked with making sure the soldiers were cared for, fed and that the infirmary in the Palas could hold enough of them. Sofia took charge in that department, with Isabella and Renée by her side. Mrs. Hammond and Alice would be running the fires and helping to seek out anything that could be used as a weapon—shrapnel for the canons, burning oil for pouring down the inner holes of the gray gatehouse—in case of a breach.

Rosalie beheld the chaos of her castle as Victoria's first wave emerged from Raven's Grove. She stood alone, afraid, yet showing none of her weakness. She had seen what war could do, seen its destruction. And she knew many would perish. But the astute princess would not step down. For then her sister would kill those who followed her regardless. If she had learned anything from Victoria, it was that her sister did not like loose ends.

Her pale face turned away from the marching army, ignoring the sound of drums as the drummer boys filled the air with suspense and tension.

She went to the cupboard off to the side of her bed and took a small opaque bottle. She downed the entire contents and coughed as the vile liquid settled in her stomach, burning all the way down.

"Are you sure you should be drinking it in such large quantities?" Glovendale asked. Her royal advisor would not leave her side, not in a time like this. She looked at him with a sour gaze, stern eyes telling him to be quiet.

"How many are they?" The words stung like acid in the air. Breathlessly she awaited the answer, wondering if it made a difference whatever number he said. Many. That was all she had seen. Thousands of men pouring out like ants from the forest.

"Fawkes estimates five thousand, but Saxton thinks they are more."

"This is the first wave," Rosalie mumbled. She turned, suddenly catching her face in a mirror. She had aged visibly for the past few months. While living in Wessport she might have passed off as younger than her years truly were, she looked older than her age now. The ruined, clammy skin, the countless growing, and deepening lines and dark circles under her eyes revealed her true state of mind.

Rosalie went to sit by the same mirror and proceeded to put on some powder on her face.

"Your Royal Highness, is this really the time?" Glovendale asked.

"My people cannot see my true state of fatigue. They must see an unbroken woman who has enough strength to lead them. If they place their faith in me, we shall overcome this," she said, meticulously powdering her face, hiding the discoloring, hiding the circles, the lines and removing ten years of worrying and sleepless nights. Some red coloring from rose-petals on her lips and cheeks brought color back to her face. She stood up from the chair and her eyes left the mirror.

"They must never see me in any other way than this, Glovendale. Do you understand?" she asked. Theodor understood more than well. They needed a strong leader, someone they could lean on. Rosalie knew that as well, and she was determined to give it to them. This battle was all she needed to pull through alone, and then _he_ would come.

Day died down, light gave way to darkness just as their enemy marched past a desolate Hayes. The gates stood shut, firmly blocked, the iron fence down—able to withstand a thousand men pushing it.

Fawkes stood atop the wall, glaring down. He always sought the thrill before a battle. But in the raging light of torches lining the walls, he saw no soldiers—mostly scared young boys and burdened old men. They stood less than two-thousand, ready to defend Adelton until their blood painted her white walls red. Saxton was by his side. He caught the worried eyes trailing over their own army.

"We make war so that we may live in peace," he murmured out into the chilly air.

Fawkes scoffed at the irony of his words. "Who said it?" he asked.

Saxton shrugged his shoulders. "Some philosopher, long since dead." Lightning suddenly lit up the evening sky, breaking through the purple haze of dusk, unsettling the steady rhythm of night emerging.

Just as their enemy started for Adelton, their boots trampling through the now brown meadow, thunder rumbled far in the distance. It was as if God himself stared down, angered by the confrontation that he saw.

There was no pause for talks, for both sides knew no agreement would be reached. The younger boys atop the wall—standing in armor too big for them, helmets that kept falling over their eyes—shook violently at the sight of thousands of men roaring, shook as drums echoed throughout the valley. Each and every person at Adelton Hall heard the horrible rhythm of drums, occasionally interrupted by thunder and lightning.

Rosalie sat inside her room, clutching the letter her sister had sent her when she had traveled in the south with Athar and Glovendale. Droplets of tears spread the ink across the parchment as she re-read the lines.

Isabella did not stop to listen to the music raging outside the stone walls. But she sensed the fear within them, smelled it—a foul stench that sprung from the townspeople and servants trapped inside. Isabella paid it no heed. She saw Alice mortified; trying to control shaking hands, walking up to work close to her friend.

And then something faint escaped Isabella's lips.

One tone followed another as the Countess of Cadherra started humming to herself. It was a song to which the words she was not familiar with. But she had heard the farmers and townswomen sing it many times in the fields or when washing by the river, and the melody stuck with her. The melody managed to calm her with its happy tune.

She looked up at Alice with a smile. Gentle brown orbs invited her to relax, telling her to ignore the outside world. The young maid stopped shaking momentarily and shut out the sound of war as well. She started humming with a cracking voice the known melody with Isabella. Some of the townswomen, seamstresses, bakers, kitchen maids, and many more began to hum along, some filling in the words to the song.

 _"Twas in the king's castle I was born and raised,_

 _And it's there that my courtly garments were made._

 _"There lives my father, there lives my mother,_

 _And there live my sister and brother."_

 _"But where are your fields and where are your lands,_

 _And where in the world does your bridal bed stand?_

 _"Where in the world does your true love lie,_

 _With whom you will live and die?"_

It grew stronger and stronger as the people inside the castle tried to push out the sound of fear. The joyful tone was out of place. But more and more joined—singing even if they did not know how. They would show Victoria's army that they held no fear. The folksong filled the space of the palace and the warmth it carried out with it soon erupted into the courtyard. The thunder was its backdrop and when the soldiers on the walls heard it, their hearts expanded in their chest as the melody and words urged on. They _were_ Cadherra—standing on that wall to defend their home at any cost.

Fawkes saw their demeanor change. The frightened boys had stopped quivering. Instead, determinedness filled their eyes.

 _"There are my fields and there are my lands,_

 _And there is the place where my bridal bed stands._

 _"There is the place where my true love does lie,_

 _With whom I have sworn to live and to die."_

They kept singing, and now, on the courtyard, the soldiers from Hayes joined in. Fawkes looked behind him and his eyes lit ablaze.

Matthew Alistair, who lead the first wave, was further back, listening to the soothing rhythm of the war drums when something broke through the crash of thunder. A melody, strange: that kind of melody one would usually never hear in the prestigious courtrooms of Wessport or any distinguished nobleman's palace. It was a melody sung by the people, almost moving away from the tasteful chant of monks or the sweet melody of a woman's pure voice. It was strangely folkloric. _Pagan_ , the thought.

And then he realized it with abhorrence. It came from Adelton Hall. The castle was _singing_. The men ahead hesitated in their tracks. Who welcomed their enemy with _song_? But it sounded louder and louder, almost booming in their ears.

 _"Here I was born, and here I was raised,_

 _And here is where my courtly garments were made._

 _"Here lives my father, and here lives my mother,_

 _And here are my sister and brother."_

Thousands of men waited for orders as the drumming stopped. Fawkes walked along the walls, controlling the men. Rajac's eyes saw the nearing army and his hands turned into fists as he gritted his teeth.

The song kept sounding through the night as the servants and townspeople of Hayes would not let fear overcome them.

Athar had never seen or heard such a sight. Rosalie stood on her balcony in silent astonishment.

"Men!" Fawkes cried, promptly motioning for Saxton and Rajac to ready their soldiers as well. "Ready the bows!"

Alistair stared at them in disbelief. They were using crossbows. Alistair saw the towering walls of Adelton, torches burned along it. Soldiers stood pointing them at his men, but they were not within range of them. He could not help a snicker as he saw some of the men sporting _longbows._ Alistair thought them truly desperate if they were using such relics. But the song and strength in their stance did not falter.

Alistair knew they had the lower ground, yet he would not stand down. "Muskets on the ready!" he shouted. They would take down the bowmen before they had a chance to even release their arrows.

"Loose!" Fawkes, Rajac, and Saxton suddenly cried out. Thunder shook the land as arrows were released from the tension of their strings. They glided through the cool night air in an upward arch, a shower of wood and iron reaching for the enemy. Alistair stared dumbfounded as, despite it all, some of the arrows found their targets.

"Ehrm, my lord," one of his marshals mumbled. "It seems the wind is in their favor." Alistair suddenly paid attention to the breeze that had picked up. He had not even given it a second thought.

"Damnation!" he cried out. The bloodthirsty man looked at the fire weapons, ready for his command. "Fire," he told the marshal who rode ahead to the immediate area of danger. Alistair had no plans on being hit by an arrow.

"Fire!" he heard, and the boom of the muskets was answered by lightning suddenly lighting up the entire sky.

And Adelton Hall kept singing. "I will silence each and every one of them!" Alistair spat, growing red. He would eventually break their spirit. When they were drained from food or water there would be no more song.

Only cries for mercy.

* * *

The night passed by, arrows raining down as muskets and thunder waltzed around in a strange dance. But Adelton Hall sang for a few more hours, those within its walls trying their best to give some sort of support to their soldiers. When their song finally died down, throats sore from singing, they kept their spirits up, ignoring the fearsome muskets ringing out in the darkness. Fawkes, Rajac, and Saxton guided the frightened young boys and seasoned war veterans, who had mustered up more bravado than before but still fought the tremble in their hands. Someone had been passing a casket of Nicholas' mead and ale around. Better they have some alcohol in their system than be completely sober and raw to the fears of battle.

Many were hit by fired shrapnel and bullets. They were brought into the Palas, screaming in pain and agony, crying out for their mothers.

The Spanish gypsy ran up and down the infirmary, a bloodstained face stiff as a mask as she did her best. Friar Nicholas was giving the last rites to a dying man, and as soon as he was finished, he helped hold down another as his torn arm was sawed off by Ruth, the cook of Adelton. She could butcher a deer; yet, cutting into the skin of a human was different. But, apparently, she had the stomach for it.

Isabella held the open wound of a crying boy as Alice administered a clotting poultice to it. He cried in fear, eyes rolling back into his head from the immense pain of his seeping wound.

She herself did not show the worry, the fear that festered. They were losing. When Alistair's men came to the walls they would start climbing. More than a third of their forces were wounded inside the Palas.

But she kept her mind focused on the task at hand. The countess was soon prompted to care for another wounded soul.

She recognized his thin features immediately. Alan Moore lay gray-faced on a cot, blood leaking from his battered left leg, his breath faint and rattled. The young woman breathed in, ignoring the foul stench of death and metallic blood. She kneeled by him and took his hand, showing some human compassion. Alan's skin was cold and his limb weak. His wrist appeared so thin compared to hers. His cheeks were sunken in, his clothes too loose, too big.

Eyelids fluttered open as he sensed the heat of another human clutching his hand. Alan turned to her, his eyes half-opened. Isabella did not know why, but an immense sorrow burrowed itself within her seeing him thus.

"You should have stayed with Nicholas, Alan," she reprimanded him, removing her hand heftily so that she might inspect his leg. Alan smiled faintly.

"Sending out every able-bodied man means me as well, my lady," he rasped through dry lips.

His leg had received a nasty shot from a musket—its content most likely rusty old metal shrapnel. The impact appeared to have fractured the bone in several places. This was nothing she could save with some poultices and a quick dress.

"I have to call Ruth," she mumbled without looking at him. Normally, when mentioning the cook in such circumstances, there would be cries for mercy from her butcher's knife. For indeed, they knew what came next; excruciating pain as steel would cut through their flesh and her saw would split their bone, severing their limb.

Alan knew what it meant, and his lip quivered, but he did not cry out against the injustice. Isabella stood, hesitant for a while, puzzled at his strange reaction. Alan was weirdly acceptant of his fate.

Ruth, ever the big and burly woman that she was, rushed over, her saw bloodied and with pieces of flesh still stuck to it. She was handed some alcohol to cleanse the metal before it was used on Alan.

His blank eyes stared up into the roof of the Palas. The high roof with intricate gothic arches, supported by the many pillars holding it all up reminded him of the nave of a ship. He kept his gaze steadfast on the stone, ignored the surrounding noise, blocking it out as Ruth declared that she was ready.

A face came into view as Isabella sat next to him once more. A kitchen maid stood over him, prepared to hold down his torso. "Pray that you faint from the pain, Mr. Moore," the countess urged him. He saw a hint of worry in her eyes.

Alan could not help as his lips stretched across his teeth. "I do not deserve your concern, my lady."

Ruth was ready to cut away the flesh right above his knee, but Isabella wanted to give him a moment, thus putting up her hand. "Stop punishing yourself, Alan. You have repented for your sins," she told him.

But Alan shook his head, starting to feel the pain etch its way into his consciousness—through the shock and adrenaline from when it had been inflicted. "I know _why_ Cullen left, and I know what that will mean for you!" he hissed with his voice cracking, desperate, burdened by it all.

She took his clutched hand firmer in hers and looked at it. Isabella saw in his wretched and malnourished state that the man who had found his conscience had long since faced the burdens of his actions and now lived with their consequences. Sometimes, she figured, reobtaining one's conscience as Alan had, might be one's undoing. For it was clear his guilt was the main culprit of his pain.

"I forgive you," she whispered to him.

After everything that had happened, Alan had expected she would hold some strong resentment toward him. If he had not pestered Cullen, Rosalie Fell would be none the wiser of his true identity.

The young woman leaned forward as a few chestnut locks fell into his eyes. She smelled of heather and rose. "Edward and I both chose this, Alan." Her eyes betrayed her smile. And somewhere deep within himself, he knew she was lying.

When he did not answer, she went to stand behind him and nodded to Ruth. A piece of wood was placed between his teeth. "You will curse me, lad, but you will live," Ruth said in a husky breath. "Johanna," she nodded to the maid who held down Alan's torso.

The saw came down into the flesh like it was butter and Alan screamed into the wood as the woman sawed through his leg. He shook and fought against the restraint until his eyes rolled back into his head.

"Good, he won't suffer now," Johanna murmured, keeping her eyes away from the opened leg but to no avail. Some bile rose up through her throat and she expelled it as Ruth started sawing through bone, the sickening sound digging itself deeper and deeper into Isabella's mind. She would forever retain that sound, even though she kept her eyes firmly on Alan's face; strangely peaceful from fainting.

 _October 5th – Adelton Hall_

A few more days passed. The initial battle was detained, and Adelton Hall was now truly in a siege. The castle's wounded protectors withdrew to lick their wounds as Alistair counted his losses.

All in all, around half of those who had fought during the initial takeover of Adelton had perished, either directly on that wall or from their wounds. A few hundred they were, but still a significant number. If Alistair decided to attack again, Fawkes, Rajac, and Saxton feared they might not make it.

But Alistair was in no rush. For if the losses of Adelton were great, his were even greater. He had muskets and canons at his disposal, yet they counted more than nine hundred men had perished from that night. It was almost a sixth of his army and he would not lose more to such brash actions again.

They would wait it out until reinforces came. For if they retook Adelton, they had their grip on Cadherra and Victoria was certain the English would leave their shores once the country was reunited again.

The day went by in a slow manner. The trees outlining Raven's Grove had rioted in color. Once lush and emerald leaves now faded to yellow and orange. The rains grew, and the once bloodied meadow was now a cesspit of mud, trampled down partly by the soldiers who walked around the castle.

Rosalie was wrapped in an elegant cloak in sapphire blue, the neckline lined with white rabbit fur, as bright as her skin tone. Her golden tresses came undone from their braids as golden leaves pirouetted down from the surrounding trees of the garden. The leaves danced merrily, shaking the whole way down, waiting to be whisked away at any second by the ruthlessly icy winds. They danced past the marble benches and fading bushes, contrasting against the bronze and amber colors of autumn. Her hands were clothed in black gloves, mimicking her brother's taste in fashion. Upon her head was a small silver tiara, resting regally, shouting to all that would hear that she was royalty.

There was a stillness present in Adelton, mostly portrayed none other than by the princess who there resided. Rosalie embodied so well the decay autumn presented, she thought.

Leaves rustled behind her as someone moved without much effort across the mud and the dying grass. Isabella Swan came to stand by her side, her cheeks rosy from the chill of a long-gone summer. But in Rosalie's eyes, while she saw herself as old and decaying, she saw light and youth in the woman before her.

For Isabella was aglow, her eyes bright from walking, her lips like rose petals. Bright big chocolate eyes took her in, an askew smile from a woman that did not let herself falter in her determination. Isabella had not let the siege get to her. And, it seemed, other matters as well.

"You look chipper, Lady Swan," Rosalie murmured as she moved her golden eyes to stare once more at the grace of autumn.

Isabella was clad in bright summer colors, despite the change in season. A peach cape brandished across her shoulders, her hair down, delicately framing her face.

"I am learning to accept what lies ahead," she said with a brief pause—trying to find the adequate words. "As horrible as it may sound, it helps that Edward isn't here right now." The blush creeping up her throat told Rosalie that Isabella was ashamed of saying such words.

The princess shook her head as a gust of wind stirred the trees, sending more golden leaves dancing from their branches, falling to a brief freedom only to meet their doom on the ground. "Do not try to fool me, Lady Swan—trying to make me believe that you have forgiven me," Rosalie said with a tremble to her voice. She fought to regain composure and found that Isabella's eyes stared directly at her.

A mask had stretched over her face, but it soon gave way. "I will not blame you for this outcome." Her face was neutral, her expression unreadable. But, by some strange twist of fate, Rosalie sensed the deep sorrow behind Isabella's words. "We all knew this would happen sooner or later, one way or another." Her breath quickened. "Edward does not blame you, and I have learned to accept it."

Rosalie shook her head. "You will despise me when the time comes, Isabella. You may stand here now and tell me with that brave face of yours that all will be well. But when the hour is upon you, when you stand face to face with the consequences of my decisions, you will hate me. And I will not blame you." A tear trailed down Rosalie's cheek, her lip trembling.

"You did it for Angloa, Rosalie."

But the words were carried away by the icy wind, just like the golden leaves. They were taken to freedom, only to soon fall to their doom.

* * *

Night had carried with it the first break from rain that had kept pestering them for the last few days. Alistair's men breathed out in relief at not having to roll around like pigs in the mud anymore. If they had any luck, Launël would send out another platoon. It would be enough to take out Adelton.

He was in his tent, planning their next moves with his officers when a scout burst running into it, falling over stacked chairs, face first into the crude carpet. Alistair's features soured when he saw the mess the boy had made.

"You better have a good reason for this intrusion, young man," one of his marshals said with his nose in the air, lacing his voice with feigned authority which made his mustache twitch in a rather comical way.

The scout scrambled to his feet in haste, his eyes bulging out of his sockets as he tried to find the right words. His woolen cap was muddied and askew, his pale skin dotted by freckles on his nose and cheeks. He was missing a front tooth and it looked like his nose had been broken several times.

"M-my lord," he finally managed to stammer. "Y-you will not believe what we have witnessed moving up from the south!" he exclaimed with a high-pitched voice.

"Settle down, lad," another officer said. "Catch your breath," he urged the boy in a fatherly voice before letting him continue.

The young scout did as he was bid, and straightened the hat, cleaning up his appearance before Matthew Alistair who kept glaring his small eyes at him, the brown hair pushed away from his face and his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"An army," the boy shook. "An army is moving up south. We spotted it just now, mere hours away from here, my lord." There was real fright in his eyes, a fear Matthew had never seen before.

"Is it the English?" one of his officers asked, standing on end, his entire body rigid and tense as he leaned into the boy's face.

"N-no," he stammered, brown eyes looking up, shy and frightened.

"Then who are they?" Alistair demanded, now fully turned to face him. They had to be sent by Launël, but why would he send them from the south? Reinforcements were supposed to come from Raven's Grove.

"And how many are they?" someone else asked.

The young soldier, no more than fourteen, looked at the older men present in that tent and he knew that there was nothing they could do that would help them against the giant that was now nearing.

"We think," he started, swallowing hard as the mere thought made him tremble. "T-ten thousand…at least." Immediate silence followed his words.

"Did you see who leads the front?" Alistair asked quietly, the whole room holding its breath for the scout's answer.

He looked up at them with eyes rigid with fear, his body shaking.

"Edward Cullen."

* * *

 **A/N: Hi! Another chapter for you (a little longer than the last). I hope you enjoyed it :D The song I presented here is actually a real song that's translated from a Swedish tune. Part of the text comes from "** **Herr Olof" but the tune I was thinking of does not come from that same song. Too folky (if you decide to listen to it).**

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I appreciate all your reviews and great comments and feedback!** **Love you guys 3**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	21. Chapter 21

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 21_

 _October 5_ _th_ _, 1520 - Cadherra_

Many had gathered on the walls to overlook the meadow beyond Adelton Hall that stretched to Coldwick and further south. The castle inhabitants had experienced days of terror at the prospect of conquering and then witnessed Alistair's vast army knocking at their gates.

It was, therefore, a great shock as one of the sentinels had caught sight of yet another army moving up from the south-west, its size larger than the first wave. Many had despaired, thinking the second wave was upon them.

The days now waned, the nights closing in and the trees in vibrant hues. Isabella stood next to Rosalie as a chill crept into the air. She shivered, despite the warmer apparel she now dressed in. But the wind had not the bite of wintry blusters, merely a faint nip, revealing the coming of autumn. The scarlets and golds were a prevalent backdrop against the invasive gray and muddy picture of camp down below.

The army in the distance was maybe a few hours away—the sound of horses and marching soldiers carried to them with the biting wind. Isabella ignored the tumbling leaves, her eyes trained on the distance, just like the rest of Adelton Hall. A small part of them had hoped it was their salvation—Edward Cullen returned in a miraculous feat, bringing with him a united south.

Her father had possessed a formidable telescope, newly acquired and barely used. He had enjoyed stargazing, albeit not very good at it. But they had found a use for the strange instrument. Emmett Saxton had peered through it, trying to find something that would identify the nearing army. The whole wall held its breath—Adelton Hall altogether stopped breathing, waiting for news. When Saxton exclaimed that a man in a black mask was at the front, they all cheered.

As their cheers had erupted, Alistair's men had gotten up into formation, preparing for battle.

It was a sight of epic proportions. Adelton watched in tense silence as a wall of riders neared from the south. They knew it had to be Edward, bringing the southern lords united. What else could it be?

Alistair's forces stood ready, but not before Adelton prepared once again. Indeed, they would not stand passively in this battle. Arches ran to line up atop the wall, ready to fire on the command of Saxton, Rajac, and Fawkes.

Silence followed. Men breathed with a tremble to their stance, anticipation slick in the air. Alistair's forces gripped their weapons. Behind them was a seemingly impenetrable fortress. But, to their front, stood a massive wall of mounted riders. And, amidst them all, they spotted the one who haunted their dreams, who gave them nightmares: Edward Cullen.

Horses snorted in the biting air as screams amounted. The Alistair forces heard the echo, the war-cry from afar. _Audeamus!_ It sounded through the valley; death itself come for them as the wall surmounted, nearing them.

There was no time to idle, no time to question beliefs or faiths. Each soldier shook in his boots, some even soiled themselves stood before the giant now nearing them.

Alistair's mouth had dropped, and he had ventured to the back of his forces, unseen by most as he put on a cloak with a hood and ran for Raven's Grove before the wall reached them. He cared little for the men fighting for him. His life was the only thing that mattered.

Horse hooves rang through the valley like thunder, crashing down on the soiled earth as they finally neared the enemy.

The impact was brutal and killed many a man instantly. Adelton Hall watched in awe as Edward Cullen, together with some other commanders, took charge.

"Rady the bows!" Fawkes sounded. He would not let Alistair's army get away easily. Rajac rushed by the lines, making sure each bowman was prepared. The scarred lord licked his lips in anticipation, eager to see Alistair's forces fall.

"Steady!" Saxton echoed. They could not hurt their own men.

Amidst the chaos, a shower of arrows came down hard upon the enemy while the horse-wall kept pushing them further to Adelton Hall.

Foot soldiers came up between the horses. Most had never seen such a sight, the smell of gunpowder, the lack of visibility…it was all startling enough.

Under the fog of riveting muskets that spread over the meadow, a soldier fumbled with the icy cold barrel of his gun. His fingers shook, his knees buckled. Alas, he would not fail now. Bullets and shrapnel swished past him as he found his footing in the sodden mud and blood now mixing in a great puddle of filth and death.

He loaded the musket and lighted the chord. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He ducked from a blade as he examined the gun. He tried again. A violent noise cracked into the tense air as he exclaimed in triumph. But it was not his gun that fired. His shirt and gambeson were stained by more than the blood of his victims.

He fell lifeless to his knees, dead before he hit the ground.

Isabella did not look at the slaughter. But she heard it. She heard every heart-wrenching scream, every sob, every gunshot. After a while, her ears grew deaf to it as she reverted back inside.

Rosalie had taken to her chambers, the princess showing clear signs of fatigue, of a state that suggested she was more than tired. It was a kind of lacking in will to continue. But no one spoke of it. Their eyes looked away from her shriveled face and pale skin as she was led to her chambers by Glovendale.

In the Palas, many also blocked away the sound. Sofia sat by a sleeping boy, a harsh blow sustained to his shoulder as he had fallen the previous night while supplying the older men with fresh arrows. The stone had been slippery, and he had fallen, dislocating the limb of his shoulder.

Isabella came there, not sure of where else to go. She spotted her mother and walked up to her. Renée quickly embraced her daughter. "I haven't seen you in days, Isabella," she said. Her face was ashen, hair was coming out of the pinned braids and her white apron bloodied, much like any other maid's apron was.

"I have been in the Palas or by Her Royal Highness' side, mother," Isabella reassured. She looked about the room, at the ailing wounded. "I sometime must leave this room because I fear that my efforts are for naught," she admitted.

Renée pushed a stray chestnut lock out of her daughter's eyes. "You are so like your father, Isabella. But we can only do so much. Do not chastise yourself for not being able to solve every little problem."

"But I am the Countess of Cadherra now, mother," Isabella forced. "I am supposed to protect the people of this land and…look at where we are."

Renée looked about herself and raised an eyebrow. "You inspire confidence in them. The first night of the siege you managed to remove their fears _with song_! It was inspiring to watch Adelton come together, to be so alive." Renée took her daughter's hand, alas a maid had been waiting patiently for the dowager countess to come to speak with her. Distracted by the new set of ears waiting patiently by the side, Renée quickly ended their little conversation. "Do not become blind to all the good that we are doing here. We knew entering into this war would be hard." She leaned in closer. "And Edward is here now, our sorrows will shortly be over." With those words, she left her daughter to tend to the wounded.

Sofia, who had been sitting in the distance, captivated Isabella with her raven eyes. The young countess noted who the gypsy was sitting next to. Alan Moore looked asleep, yet he did not seem to find peace in it.

She walked over to them. "How fares Mr. Moore?" she asked.

Sofia placed a piece of linen into a bucket of water and proceeded to dot his feverish forehead. "Fever dreams," she answered curtly.

"Will he make it?"

"There is slight inflammation in the stump of his leg," Sofia answered again.

Isabella's mouth hardened. "He _must_ make it, Sofia." Enigmatic eyes stared up at her. Isabella walked in closer. "I know you wish him dead," the countess began with a harsh tone to her voice. "But I also know of your abilities." She stood tall before the gypsy, her hands clasped in front of her, not willing to back down before the harsh glance the Spaniard sent her way. "You _will_ save his life."

"He is the reason Edward left," Sofia stated. "We do not kill him if we simply let his wounds fester," the soft accent softened the severity of the words.

Isabella stepped in closer. "If Alan Moore does not make it, you will be cast out of Adelton. I gave this man my word that he would live when he had his trial. I tend to keep that word—and so does Edward." Isabella kept touching the string on her left ring finger, reminding herself of the deep union she held to the masked man.

Sofia stared at the feverish man in disgust. "And who orders me to do such a thing?" she demanded, turning once more to Isabella.

The brunette straightened her back and set her jaw. "The Countess of Cadherra," she started but paused as if thinking something through. Her features softened slightly. "But, also, your daughter-in-law," she admitted in a whisper. Sofia's blank eyes stared back at her. "You may not admit it, but you are and always have been a true mother to Edward. And if you care for him, for his word and his honor, you will let this man live through his wounds."

Sofia pushed her graying mane out of her face, the harsh and wrinkled features softened as her shoulders relaxed. She remained silent, but Isabella knew that she would obey. It was enough for the young woman who walked away. But she did not see the satisfied smirk of the gypsy as she turned her back.

After what seemed like hours, the sound of war finally died down.

It was oddly quiet. The inhabitants of Adelton Hall and the refugees from Hayes only heard the sound of sloppy mud as men's boots and horses' hooves walked through it. The wind glided gently through the golden and ruby leaves while birdsong managed to return.

If they did not look over the wall, no one might ever think a battle had just taken place.

Fawkes had the doors to Adelton open.

They all waited with held breaths. Isabella was obliged to welcome their saviors for she was, after all, Countess of Cadherra.

In rode men with muted faces. It was prevalent what they had just done—a great killing that should deserve nothing but silence. The people did not cheer after what they had witnessed. Although, they were thankful.

The front was led by a group of five men. Edward rode in through the gates on Cid and was the one who got the most attention. Some villagers finally started erupting in grateful thanks despite themselves. He had come back to save them, and many tearful eyes could not help but ignore the slaughter and revel in the fact that they were alive.

Isabella managed a smile his way as he dismounted. Jacob stood next to her, his hand in a sling from wounds sustained while defending the castle. She spotted him wrinkling his nose.

The other three lords dismounted as well. Isabella recognized two of them, lords from old and proud families—the grandest of the south. The other one she had not seen before, but something about his appearance was very familiar.

"Who do you suppose that one is, the dark-haired one?" she whispered to him.

Jacob's lips kept pressing together firmly, not willing to indulge her in her curiosity. When he did not answer, Isabella shrugged and walked over to them, to Edward. She neared him, waiting for the serious eyes to soften into a smile at the sight of her.

But she found none of that with the masked man. In fact, the closer she got to him, the stranger it felt. She could not put her finger on it, but something was off with Edward.

He walked up to her and took her hand, bending down to kiss it. "Edward, I…" But she cut herself short as she was met with two golden orbs. This was not Edward.

"Play along, my lady, and everything will be explained to you later," he whispered to her. Isabella's confusion immediately gave way to a crafted mask where a smile and gratitude displayed instead. He ran a familiar hand along her cheek. The display of affection between Isabella Swan and Edward Cullen was not uncommon, it could therefore not be forgone now. He bent down to give her a peck on the cheek and she fought against every cell in her body not to shy away.

This was not Edward—she had no idea who this man was.

Before she could ask him, too caught up in the small revelation that no one else seemed to have figured out, he turned. "Isabella," he said, and she almost jumped. It did indeed sound like Edward—the same rich and powerful voice. Or someone very good at imitating said voice.

"Lord Raleigh, Irias, and Black are the reason Adelton is safe," he continued. She crooned her neck to get a glimpse of them. Lord Raleigh, she had met one time when she was very little, but she remembered the burly man. In fact, he reminded her quite a bit of Fawkes. The only difference was that Lord Raleigh was quite a bit burlier. But he had the same profuse sense of humor and pride. Not to mention taste for women. And he was one of the grand southern lords. The other man, Lord Irias, came from the oldest family Angloa had ever known. Even his name was old Angloan and not English like many of his peers. He stood taller and leaner than most there present, the armor he wore almost too big on his thinner frame.

And she looked at the third man, Lord Black. Isabella knew immediately that he had to be related to Jacob, for not only did they share the same last name, but their appearance was quite similar as well. She was about to turn to Jacob to comment on it when she found him disappeared.

"Who is the fourth man, _Edward_?" she whispered, emphasizing his name under her breath.

"Later," he breathed.

"Where are the other lords?" Lord Raleigh asked. "Where is Fawkes?"

Of course they knew each other, Isabella thought to herself.

"My lords," Athar exclaimed in contained joy as he walked up to them. "We owe you a great debt." Lord Raleigh gave him a crooked smile, his face lit up more, however, when he caught sight of Fawkes, followed by Saxton, Rajac, and Glovendale.

Irias kept a neutral expression.

Isabella, however, could not take her eyes of the man in the hood.

Athar kept looking about in anticipation—he was expecting someone else to be there.

"Cullen!" Fawkes exclaimed as he walked up to the masked man standing next to Isabella. He grabbed him in a strong embrace and she could practically hear the masked man being squished by the proud old general.

"You came in the nick of time!" he uttered. The man who was not Edward nodded, catching himself and keeping a stoic expression present in his stance, posture and general air. Fawkes quickly caught on, the glaring eyes behind the mask enough to make him release him.

Isabella had no idea who the impostor was, but he was very good at his impersonation of Edward. As if Edward himself had shown him how to act, talk and behave.

"We seek audience with Her Royal Highness," he muttered after Fawkes had taken a step back.

"She is resting, general," Athar directed at him. There was something else he wished to say, but he stopped himself short, probably not wanting to speak out in the open.

"What I have to say to her is of great importance," the masked man went on.

Athar walked up to him while Fawkes and Saxton chatted with the other lords. The rest of the army and its officers started settling in the courtyard of the castle. Some villagers had gone out, walking around to help search for survivors and drag bodies from the meadow. They had started digging mass graves off to the side of the meadow, inside Raven's Grove, where to bodies would be buried before they started bloating and decaying.

Isabella overheard the conversation between Athar and the impostor.

"Did you find him?" Athar asked in a hushed voice. When he received no answer, he added; "Her Royal Highness told us why you were gone and where you were going… _who_ you were going to get." A hint of betrayal presented itself within his gray orbs. "You kept it from me…even in the dungeon—"

"I didn't know if I could trust you, Athar," he answered brusquely.

"After everything I had done?" Athar's voice gained strength.

"From _his_ perspective…how could you completely be trusted? He was kept in Angloa because you would not let Leonore sail back to France. Maybe if you had, she could have been saved." There was a slight tone of resentment and Athar paled when he realized Edward held some anger toward him.

"Is this what he feels about me?"

Isabella could not help but feel sorry for the old man. He had dedicated his life to the crown. She understood well why Edward was angered by Athar's decision. A decision that had probably cost Leonore Valois her life. But she did not understand why, after everything Athar had done to prove himself, he still resented him.

Unbeknownst to them all, the man in the dark blue hood had slipped away during the chatter and ventured into the castle. He hoped he would reach his destination before they realized he had left.

* * *

Rosalie sat up in her bed, feeling better after a bowl of Ruth's hearty soup. She regarded the frail hands gripping the cover, her chest rising and falling. The sound of battle long gone, only the song of autumn brushing against her window. Ticking like sand in an hourglass, time slowly running out until life ceased and winter came.

There was no knock as he entered, a hooded man with a tall figure. He stood out against the dullness in her rooms, yet the wax candles slid past him in a strange haze as if he were not there—a ghost gliding through the realm of death and living.

Rosalie gazed idly at him for she knew who he was, and her lip quivered when the hood was removed.

His hair was cut short now, a few inches or so from his scalp, the copper tresses tumbling boyishly into his eyes. His full beard was gone. Instead, a shadow now grazed his square jaw. A straight and proud nose—the one thing all of their family had in common. His eyes were not as slanted. Thick eyebrows, full of vibrancy and expression sat close to his eyes. Thicker eyelashes lined those forest greens. His full lips pulled aside for a faint smile to present itself on his handsome face.

Rosalie managed a teary-eyed smile as her lip quivered. "You look like him," she whispered. The man sitting before her took her hand in his bare one and squeezed it. "…uncanny," she mumbled under her breath.

"I am here now, Rosalie," he reassured her with those intense orbs that seemingly could stir the seas and skies at their whim. "Now you rest and recover." He took in the sight of her, the shriveled-up princess of Angloa.

Rosalie's head settled against the pillows keeping her upright in her bed and gave away a deep sigh. It was an expression of peace that presented itself within her—as if she had not been able to breathe or relax before.

* * *

"Where is he?" Athar asked the masked man as they walked into Adelton. He had been looking around, thinking he might recognize the long-lost son of Philip Fell. But he saw no such face.

"Slipped away while Irias, Black, and Raleigh entertained you lot," came the muffled response.

Athar stopped in his tracks. "Slipped away?" More followed them. Curious officers and lords who all knew whom Edward Cullen had gone to seek.

Where was William Fell?

It was the only thing now prevalent in their minds. The three southern lords and their equipage had kept their mouths shut.

Edward's impostor stopped short before him and his aura grew slightly menacing, almost irritated. "He wished to see his sister before the whole castle sought him out."

Athar could practically feel his mouth turn into a dry desert. Could it be that simple? Was the long-lost son of his old friend really with Her Royal Highness?

"Do you still think he is there?" Fawkes wondered with astonishment lining his features. Lord Tyris was there, returned from Sorise with his entourage. There were also some Marshals, Saxton, Rajac, Glovendale and a few captains joined by Irias, Black, and Raleigh.

The masked man stopped before them, oozing of contained irritation. Whoever hid beneath that mask seemed done with carrying it—wanting nothing more than to remove it.

"Let him have his peace with her. He will meet you later tonight."

The lords were restless. "How can we wait?" Tyris demanded. "A man who claims to be the legitimate son of Philip Fell would have us wait—"

Athar silenced him before he continued spurting out nonsense. "Have him come to the Assembly Room when he is ready. We will be there, we will wait for him," he turned to the others. "A few more hours make no difference, my lords. I think he has the right to reunite with his sister in peace."

It was strange how understanding the old man could be. But maybe he wanted to rebuild a friendship with the prince. He knew there needed to be respect for the man they might one day claim as their king.

* * *

"Irias is here as well," he chuckled. It was more natural without the mask, more charm behind the simple gesture. And he was not aware of it. Rosalie grew so confused, should she refer to him as Edward or William?

"Good," she mumbled distantly.

He noticed her distant state, her eyes trailing to the far-off wall. He had lit more candles as the sun started trailing down on the sky.

"I chose this, Rosalie." His velvet voice, not as deep as before—more friendly, pleasant, _understanding_ —wanted to relay to her that he knew what he had gotten into.

"It will be temporary," she swore with wide eyes. "Unless…you would take my place? I am certain that, as soon as the lords here see you, they will blindly follow you as well—"

"It isn't that simple." His green eyes drifted off now as well, caught on a fixed point on one of the medieval tapestries. "The south didn't unite for William Fell…at least not at the beginning." The air grew denser after those words had been spoken as if they should never have been said. Rosalie grew confused.

She wanted to ask, but he continued after pausing, trying to find the adequate vocabulary which would help him express the importance of what had happened in the south.

He turned to face her. "They rallied to our side because Edward Cullen came."

Her brows furrowed. "These proud lords would follow a man whose lineage they do not know rather than a pure blue-blood? Then why did they not come when I went down to call on them sooner?"

"Edward Cullen gave them the unthinkable. And they knew him while they know that William will represent the royal lineage…even though he hasn't accepted the job," he joked.

"This isn't something to jest about in such a carefree manner, Edw— William," she reprimanded.

He shook his head and got up from the bed. "I am in an even greater trap now, dear sister. For these lords want both Edward and William and you…all three of us against Victoria and the English," he growled. The familiar voice of Edward emerged past the charming mask of William Fell.

Rosalie understood the situation he found himself in. "That does complicate things."

He chuckled again. "Carlisle hates being me."

"Carlisle is the one wearing the mask?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"He is surprisingly good at mimicking me, though I think Jacob could be even better." He took his sister's hand. "Rosalie, whatever situation we find ourselves in, we shall overcome it. These problems will be solved, and all shall be well. I can see it, the end of this wretched fight, the end of our sorrows."

Rosalie's lips parted while simultaneously trembling. She parted her arms to hug him. Edward reveled in their embrace. Rosalie was everything Victoria was not to him. She was the embodiment of good, of light. In some sense—sharing moment's like these—almost made her feel like a mother to him. A good-natured and gentle mother, very unlike Sofia in her way.

"I suppose you must meet them soon. We must not keep those lords waiting for you much longer," she whispered in a sigh. Yet, she did not let him go—as if she was showing a precious gem to the world. "Or maybe you would forget them and William Fell could remain hidden a little bit longer—"

"It is too late now," her brother's voice sounded in her ear. "I stop hiding from now on and will be by your side, Rosalie." They let go of their embrace and she held his bare hand.

"Let me know how Athar reacts," she chuckled despite herself. "The poor man might have a heart attack, you know."

He laughed at her remark and squeezed her hand with his own before getting up. William Fell strolled to the door as he raised his hood up, closing it tightly after himself and heading for where Edward had told him they would all be meeting: the assembly room.

* * *

The Assembly Room was more cramped than usual. Oval in shape and stone walls lined with flickering candles in the absence of sunlight, it cast strange shadows over the awaiting faces. Carlisle, dressed as Edward, Irias, Raleigh, and Black were the only ones who had seen the supposed prince. Many had come to seek further information from them, but they shared little.

Carlisle was as silent and somber as a grave and Fawkes stopped pestering him when a final murderous glance was cast his way. Irias and Raleigh kept whispering on the short end of the table that occupied the center of the room.

There was an air of restlessness, of giddiness and something akin to fear. Who would step through that door at the far side of the oval room?

Anticipation grew, stretching its long tendrils and turned the energy to something nervous, something they could not quite explain. Minutes ticked to hours for them and they all grew silent while awaiting the man of the hour. Tingles flew through them like electrical sparks on the way to the ground.

Conversation had soon died down to be replaced by nothing. Only the occasional push of the wind, rattling the windows. Flickering of candlelight danced its strange dance.

Steps sounded beyond that door and they grew into something bizarre, echoing through their bodies as if they were not really there. Some paled, others felt their hands grow clammy or stomachs turn.

Why were they nervous?

Others awaited with curiosity, ready to pounce on whom they thought to be a clear impostor, savoring the moment they would prove him wrong.

Carlisle stared at the crowd and gave a little prayer for Edward. He felt the massive expectancy drift in that room, as loaded as the sky was before a massive thunderstorm.

And the footsteps lost their echo as they came closer and closer. Athar was the most rigid of them all, his eyes fixed on the door as if it held the key to his whole existence. His lips and mouth had long since grown dry from constant waiting. He trembled slightly, jumping in place as the handle turned and a man stepped in.

It took a second or two for them to register him, his presence, his form outlined against the darkness of the hall behind him. He dressed in simple dress, a royal blue doublet, dark breeches, and polished boots. But he managed to make the clothes look smart for some reason.

The information sunk in slowly as to whom has just walked through the door.

William Fell.

He stood there, wearing the most normal cut of clothes, carrying himself with a relaxed air. Yet, he came off as larger than life to them.

William Fell.

Right before their eyes he stood, letting them process his face, his figure, his eyes. Everything. There was no sound present in that room. It was obsolete; a vacuum where he was the center of it all, of calculating eyes, of curious faces. In the seconds that followed, he closed the door behind him, now standing full figured before them.

At first, most would not see it, the candles casting shadows across handsome features. But Athar saw it from the start.

This could not be him, William Fell.

No, this was someone else. And as he paled further, his eyes glazed with unshed tears, he spoke out first.

"Philip?"

His otherwise calm and fatherly tone was thick, shy and almost afraid. The green eyes fixed on him, putting their full attention on him and his heart burst. Those were not Philip's eyes for they were not the gray orbs that had looked at him through decades. They were not the same gray orbs which had smiled at him, guided him, consoled him, challenged him.

A tear ran down his cheek. Once he realized it was not Philip, his brows furrowed. How could this be? Was it not the same face? The same lips, nose, jawline? How could he be seeing the uncanny likeness and yet not see Philip?

Fawkes' mouth had fallen down, not able to utter a word. But he had seen it rather quickly as well. While he had never seen Philip Fell in his youth, he figured this was the next best thing. For it did indeed look like the portrait come to life. They were all dumbfounded at the face before them.

Edward let them process it, fought hard to let the neutral mask remain on his features. His heart rate was soaring, he could feel the sweat running down his back, sticking to the white shirt he wore beneath the doublet.

But, to their surprise, it was Lord Tyris who spoke out first after Athar, who said a semblance of words that might be considered reasonable. He had recovered from the initial shock first, and he set out immediately to question the young man before him.

"I will n-not argue the resemblance," he stammered carefully. "You are indeed r-related to King Philip," he admitted.

Wide eyes would not break contact from looking at that face. Sounds of agreement sounded beyond what Tyris had stated. "But this whole affair t-that you should be Leonore Valois' son…it is too good to be true that you should be related both to Angloan and French royalty."

Edward remained silent, his forest greens breaking from Tyris and captivating Athar once more. He started walking toward him. The old man stood frozen as he watched the man near him like a specter out of the fog. He took a step back, thinking his heart might give out.

Edward removed his gloves and stood before Athar, his height towering over the older man. He looked at him for a long time before stretching out his left hand with the back turned upward.

Athar's eyebrows knitted together at first until he stared down. A small scar ran along the back of his left hand. It was from an injury the prince must have sustained a long time ago. Slowly but surely his mind started working for him as he remembered a sunny day of May, a knife and what he'd presumed to be a little girl lighting up at that knife. He remembered the cries as she had run for her mother, the cut across the back of her left hand, how Leonore had soothed her and bandaged that cut.

Edward's right hand dug inside his doublet until he produced an item to show Athar. It was a small dagger, simple with a straight blade ending in a sharp tip. The hilt was wrapped in worn black leather.

"A weapon is not a toy, Mr. White." He spoke for the first time and his voice ran like smooth velvet against their ears. For it held a pleasantness and charm to it that none of them had ever expected. Except for Athar. It was the same tone Philip often had spoken in, especially in his younger years. Even his voice sounded like his father's had.

"It's him," Athar whispered, looking the young man straight in the eyes. There was such assuredness in his voice that Tyris would not question him at first.

"It _is_ him," Saxton said in agreement, his eyes shining like the stars now beckoning outside the window. He could not believe what he was seeing. The green orbs now turned his way. Saxton still remembered the small boy who had been brought to his father's estate in Sorossa and cared for. He remembered the nasty cut across his throat and down his chest, remembered overhearing his parents whispering about "Fell" and line of succession. He had known the moment he had seen the scars trailing down this man's throat to his chest that he was who he said he was. Saxton had been struck by the realization that he stood before the legitimate son of Philip Fell.

Edward saw most looks of general curiosity now turn to sheer wonderment at that. But there was still some suspicion lacing them. He took a step back, Athar still silent, still not being able to say more as the tears ran freely down his eyes. This was his failure: the son he had failed to protect now miraculously stood before him and he feared how he must hate him.

"Let us set things straight right now," Edward told the lords. "I will tell you the same thing I told Lords Raleigh, Black, and Irias. I came solely upon my sister's and Cullen's request. I am not here to take her place, I am not here to claim the crown."

A sharp intake of breath followed, and Rajac grew visibly angry. "You have been alive this whole time?"

"I have," Edward answered in the same calming and smooth voice.

"You have been alive, and you have heard of what happened here…of your cousin's death—Jasper' death?!" Anger threatened to turn into rage.

Edward remained silent.

"Why?" Fawkes asked in turn. "Why did you not step forth earlier? You could have saved us so much pain, so much grief." His voice grew rougher and rougher, his tone more intense until the point of breaking.

"Because I would not get involved with a nation that cost my mother her life—with a woman; a sister, who tried to kill me in my youth." He looked around and let go of the anger he had been holding for so long. "I did not step forth before because I never held ambition for the throne that has broken so many people."

"Yet, you are here now," Saxton pointed out.

The green orbs now turned his way and he hesitated at their intensity. "I came because Rosalie willed it. I came because Cullen asked."

Eyes turned to look at Carlisle. "How long have you known of his existence?" many demanded in what seemed like contained anger and irritation.

"Many years before coming back to Angloa, when I was traveling the world," he growled as if not wanting to speak of it.

"We met in the Orient," Edward filled in. "For few would recognize my face there." What he said was true. While William and Edward were one and the same, he had indeed been in the Orient. He and Carlisle had meticulously gone over what they should say if the question ever came up.

"And you did not recognize him?" Tyris asked.

"I did not make the connection at the time, not until I returned to Angloa."

They all turned quiet, taking in the vast and heavy information that had just been presented.

"Edward saved my life," Edward said. He needed to prove that William and Edward trusted each other. For if they held trust, the other lords would trust William as well. It had worked with the southern lords. It would work with the others as well. "And it cost him his face," he continued. It was bizarre to be speaking about such a thing. But, maybe it held some sort of truth. Edward Cullen had, in some sense, saved William's life by putting on the mask. But it meant that Edward Cullen could never show his face to the world. He liked to think that it was the truth in that statement.

They all looked at the masked general with a new sense of awe now present in their eyes.

"When I heard the full extent of Victoria's crimes, of what she has led this country to, I answered my sister's summons. But, my lords, I have spent the past seventeen years away from Angloa. I am, as Lord Irias stated on our journey here, unfamiliar with my fatherland. I hope you will accept me as your equal," he looked at the lords. "As a friend," he looked to Carlisle. "As an Angloan."

They all knew their answer. There was no need to gather the assembly, to ponder it. They needed him. Maybe he did not know how to lead an army, how to command the lords. But they needed what he represented; legitimacy. And if the legitimate heir to the throne supported Rosalie. They had the God-given right on their side to cast Victoria out.

"You are an Angloan, Your Highness," Lord Irias said. His acceptance of the prince was all the other lords needed.

"Aye!" some of them uttered.

"Hear-hear!" others erupted.

Edward bowed his head in gratitude. And in that strange circumstance, he placed a hand on Athar's shoulder. The gray orbs filled with self-resentment, with guilt. They stared at him like a lost child.

"All is forgotten—all is forgiven, Lord Athar," the prince said. What had happened to him had not been Athar's fault, at least not in his eyes. And at that moment, Athar found the peace he had so been searching for. At that moment, he wondered if Philip stared down at them, and he hoped he saw where his son now was.

A shaky smile trailed along his lips as the prince's hand squeezed his shoulder and his own smile parted his lips.

But Athar only saw the smile of his long-dead friend and the tears that now still fell were out of joy instead of guilt and sadness.

* * *

 **A/N: Yet another chapter. I have almost gone over all the grammar from the first fic and slightly altered some things. However, my hope is that when this whole series is finished, I can truly get into the writing and do major touch-ups to the narrating and writing in some areas. I have really listened to all of your feedback during this whole journey and learned so much! So thank you!**

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter :D If you did, don't forget to leave a review! Thank you also to all of you who left reviews to the last chapter, really appreciate it!**

 **Cheers!**


	22. Chapter 22

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 22_

 _October 6_ _th_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

When rumors coursed through the castle that the ghost of Philip Fell had come back from the grave, many did not believe it at first. But as night passed and morning beckoned, Edward realized he would have to come forth as William before the inhabitants of the castle sooner than expected.

He lay in the bed, next to a sleeping Isabella. He had sought her out as soon as he could get away from pestering lords and ogling servants. Their night had been spent in the other's arms, only reveling in the other's presence without any other type of union. He had stared up at the ceiling, letting his thoughts wander as she lay against his chest. Her long chestnut tresses were loose and tickled his exposed flesh.

He breathed in the scent of his wife. They had both lain there silent, not wanting to speak of the future. Isabella did not show it, but he imagined the fright present in her mind. He was afraid of what was to come, what William's future would entail for Edward and Isabella.

His eyes trailed to the opened window as dawn broke through. Golden rays timidly ventured into the room and there was a moment of unexplained stillness not just in the bedchamber, but in his heart. The beauty of nature outside that window captured him for a moment; ruby, orange, and gold danced across the leaves of the trees outside the castle. The building slowly came to life, but he only reveled in the peace of the cold morning, in the sighs of Isabella, in the chill of autumn which he so loved. Summer was dying as gracefully as it could, but it still managed to leave an abundance of life behind before winter came to reclaim its powerful presence.

Soon Carlisle would come and take his place as Edward and put on the mask as he himself took up the mantle of William Fell. At the start, ever since returning to Adelton sans mask, he did not know what to think or feel. But being free from the mask was not as strange as he thought it would be. It was strangely freeing, and his mind wandered back to the day he had left Adelton to get William Fell…

 _It was a warm morning, the last remnants of summer left, and the only people who knew he was leaving were Isabella, Carlisle, Rosalie, and Jacob. Isabella had gone down to say her goodbyes to him in the courtyard. Carlisle would ride with him, but he did not know why he was to accompany him._

 _Not yet._

 _Her presence in that courtyard was almost enough to stop him from going. The sun was rising in the east, its rays almost blinding, invasive. Her hands gripped him tightly, not wanting to let go of the man which she loved._

 _She kissed him before he could kiss her, and Edward deepened the action, ignoring if Carlisle and Jacob were witnesses to their display of affection._

 _Their faces rested close together as birds chirped their soft melody, carried by a gentle breeze that smelled of heather._

" _When I return, it will be without the mask."_

 _She nodded against him, her form shaking. Isabella crumbled despite having promised herself she wouldn't. She pinched her eyes shut and squared her jaw to fight her emotions from blossoming to the surface._

" _I…" What could she say? Her chocolate orbs trailed up to meet his, the forest green hiding behind black leather. Her hand trailed along his covered cheek. "This is what we need," she finally settled on saying._

 _He embraced her hard and long, grown mute. They knew they might still be able to be together, but he wondered what broken future William Fell had for him. Life without Isabella by his side was unthinkable and he would never give her up. Edward saw himself as an unselfish man in many aspects. But when it came to the woman he loved, he could never give her up._

 _Their embrace finally broke. The soft cry which she gave out as he backed toward Cid was enough to tear him apart._

 _A hand came to rest on his shoulder. "The castle will awaken soon," Carlisle whispered. Edward looked at his wife for a long while, standing there looking so fragile next to Jacob._

 _He did not know it then, but the image of her standing in her nightgown with a thin silk robe in burgundy thrown over it and her chestnut tresses catching the rays of the sun would be forever engrained in his mind. It would haunt him in his dreams as if he had already lost her._

Her form pressed closer as she gave out a sound of comfort at being in his arms. Isabella's hand trailed up his naked chest and smiled with her eyes still closed. "How can it be morning already?" she groaned as she shivered against him. He pulled the covers up further as his lips spread while kissing the crown of her head. "When we are happy, time seems shorter. When we suffer, it is stretched out," he murmured. His voice was still rough from sleep.

Isabella opened her eyes slowly, blinking out the last droplets of sleep. Her body sighed. She did not voice it, but she wished they could stay in that room forever, in the embrace of the other.

"Today William meets Cadherra," Edward mumbled as his wide eyes remained steadfast on the beamed ceiling. "The moment all of Adelton Hall's inhabitants learn of my existence rumors will spread fast," he kept going.

"Does it frighten you?"

Somewhere the smell of smoke filled their airways as the kitchen fires were lit. Today would be a colder day than usual, he thought. "I do not know how they will react," he answered truthfully.

A hand absentmindedly played with a stray lock of his dark copper hair. "Maybe they will not know how to react," she whispered.

He turned his head to look at her. Like always, she was taken aback by how handsome he truly was. Her hand brushed his unshaven cheek, feeling the rough shadow of a beard growing, scraping across the skin of her fingers. Edward's face closed in on hers as his lips hesitated, hovering above hers for a second before slowly coming down to kiss them. She parted her lips and answered his kisses with her own. They were soft and warm, full of his love for her. She sensed the desperation behind his kisses, the claim he held of her in them.

A knock stopped them before they got further. With great reluctance and a stifling groan, Edward got out of bed. "Who goes there?" he asked in his growling voice—the one he used with his mask on, not as a prince.

"Tis I, Edward," Carlisle' muffled voice sounded behind the door.

Isabella quickly got out of bed and went into the adjacent room to prepare for the day as Edward let Carlisle step in.

"I brought you some better clothes this time. You can't dress like a commoner when you're a prince," his friend chastised.

Edward threw him a mask and a change of dark clothing. "Don't get too carried away with this role," he smirked as he started putting on the white shirt. "I think you enjoy being me," he said with the hint of a laugh in his eyes.

Carlisle chuckled. "What can I say, to have the soldiers and lords stare with fright, admiration and respect is always a desirable effect."

"But not when their eyes look about ready to pop out of their heads," Edward answered.

He tied the doublet shut; brocade velvet with royal blue and silver thread worked into it. His hoses matched the blue color. Carlisle had even procured a longer cape in the same material which he tied diagonally across his back.

"You will walk as Edward Cullen with me to the Hall of the Singers."

"Just like that? Walk freely about the castle with your face uncovered?" Carlisle wondered.

"Is there a problem?"

"Well," he grinned. "I think you might give one or two maids a small scare if they see you wandering about."

Edward grimaced just as Isabella walked out. Carlisle' face disappeared behind the black mask. Isabella's light-colored clothes in beige and bright vermillion contrasted with the men's darker shades. She walked up to Carlisle and smiled sheepishly, staring at him and his arm, waiting for him to offer it. "You do a good job at playing Edward, Carlisle. But no one will be fooled that you love me unless you start acting like it," she said with an arched eyebrow. If it were not for the mask, she would have seen him grow flustered.

"I…I do not wish to presume," he mumbled.

"Presume, Carlisle. For the lords cannot know it is you beneath this garb, lest they suspect me as William."

He nodded as he then offered Isabella his arm. "My lady," he winked.

Edward breathed out heavily through his nose in preparation. He fidgeted with his hands and it was strange to see his bare face, the clenched jaw, and the jumping eyes. He was nervous despite not wanting to admit it. "Shall we?"

They stood before the door, the three of them walking out as a group, a unit. "Where is Jacob?" Isabella wondered.

"He waits with the rest of the lords…" Carlisle trailed off. "I think he does not wish to be with them for want of avoiding his father," he muttered. She was about to question him further but knew it not to be the time.

She went up to the door and turned the handle, the three of them stepping out into the hallway. Edward had never felt so naked without the mask as then. But in the presence of his wife and his friend, he would weather any storm.

* * *

"Joanna, I told you several times that you should bring a basket of linen instead of trying to carry them in your apron," Mrs. Hammond chastised. "That way you can put the filthy linen back there without having to grab at them too much.

"I know, Mrs. Hammond, but I always forget." They were walking down the hallway leading to Isabella's chamber.

Joanna fought to keep all the dirty bed-linen in her arms as they now went to the countess' chambers, the last in their rounds to change sheets.

Adelton had seen a great shift in the general air. There only floated whispers about the desolate hallways ever since the return of Cullen and the united south. Rumors that one man in a hood—whose face resembled that of someone long dead—was the only thing she ever heard now. Apparently, a page, a young boy not yet a man, had spotted the striking man speaking with Cullen. He thought himself to have seen an apparition and had walked around, scared off his wits ever since.

They all thought they might perish from curiosity.

Steps echoed from the end of the hallway, jumping against the rough stone of the castle, floating Mrs. Hammond's and Joanna's way.

"Her ladyship makes way, Mrs. Hammond!" Joanna whispered to the older woman. Aye, and the masked man was by her side, as frightening as ever.

"They must be on their way to the Hall of the Singers," Mrs. Hammond leaned in to whisper. "Her Royal Highness has gathered most of the castle there for an address."

"Why was I not informed?" Joanna asked back.

"Because we cannot all go," the older woman chastised.

Her young companion's eyebrows furrowed as she looked back to the couple. "Pray tell, Mrs. Hammond, who goes with them?" she asked.

A third figure now stepped out from the murky shadows and neared them, getting closer and closer.

"I cannot say," she heard the old woman mumble.

His face came into light and she stopped cold in her tracks. That was a face she had never expected to see.

Joanna's fingers turned to icicles as she caught sight of features she had only seen in paintings. Her lip trembled as she dropped the sheets, their weight similar to that of bricks. They tumbled in a desolate thud to the cold floor. She stopped walking as well, just as Mrs. Hammond's small figure tumbled where she stood.

Edward saw both women and realized they had caught sight of his face, of the uncanny likeness. The young maid's eyes had grown wide and her brow furrowed when she dropped the linen.

"By the saints," a pale Mrs. Hammond had whispered in a shaking voice as they passed. The otherwise collected old woman, a pillar of force and strength, had lost all control of her senses the moment she saw him.

She made the sign of the cross as he passed with a bow of the head, both faces of housekeeper and maid completely white. Carlisle had leaned closer to Isabella. "Seems he does not need to wear the mask to provoke such an effect anymore," he mumbled in her ear. She sent him a sideways glance.

How would it go in the Hall of the Singers? How would Adelton and Hayes act once they saw him?

Rosalie had already entered the room together with most of her lords. It started filling with inhabitants of the castle and common folk from Hayes—those who had helped during the siege. She started speaking to them, thanking them for their bravery in the face of such a threat.

The vast hall was packed full of people. "Had it not been for the brave men and women here present, we would not stand here today." She turned to Lords Irias, Black, and Raleigh. "Had it not been for these men who followed Edward Cullen to our aid, we would not be standing here." She ignored Lord Wilson and Tyris, who were there present as well now returned from their homes out of sheer curiosity. Alas, they had given no helping hand in defeating Alistair's army.

The Hall of the Singers erupted in cheers at her words. The loud noise of more than five hundred people was enough to burst an eardrum.

"But," her voice echoed strongly, breaking the grand sound. She sat perched upon the ancient throne of Angloa brought there from the smaller Throne Room; the grand princess looking regal, untouchable to the commoners. "There were many who lost their lives," she continued amidst the absence of sound. All faces now looked down, many remembering a lost one. "And I wish to take a moment to remember those heroes who fell during the siege of Adelton Hall, those who fought bravely. For both men, women and children gave their lives so that we may sit here today."

Silence echoed throughout the grand room. They stood, remembering the horror, the fright, the days of battle present in their eyes. But they also remembered the comradery, their will of iron, the fight that would never cease.

Rosalie caught sight of Edward, Isabella and Carlisle standing by the doorway and she motioned for the masked one and his wife to approach.

"There is one man here who we owe much to," she interrupted the silence as Carlisle approached her. "One man whom I sent on a mission to find someone. And that someone, together with Edward Cullen, brought us the south."

When the people caught sight of Carlisle in Edward's garb, they cheered loudly again as he came to stand with Lord Athar and Glovendale next to their princess.

Rosalie did not know how best to introduce William to her subjects. For indeed, many were those who knew well the face of Philip Fell. "And there is one more to whom I owe my gratitude." She turned to look at the doorway where he stood. "Come to me." Her hand was outstretched as she reached for her brother.

Heads turned to catch a glimpse of the man she had spoken to. William Fell stepped through the throng and toward his sister as mouths fell, eyes popped out of their sockets and faces paled when they looked at the impossible.

The living image of a king long dead was materialized before them, walking amongst them, up to the throne, to the princess. Who was this stranger? Who was this man who bore such similarity to the dead? Many thought it to be a ghost of the king, but that could not be! Others thought it witchcraft, growing frightened, almost suspicious.

Friar Nicholas stood amongst the people and looked with wide eyes as the long-lost son had found his way home.

William stood before his sister and gave her a deep bow, showing his respect to her. "Stand by my right side, William." Her eyes shone like a thousand diamonds. William and Rosalie Fell collectively looked out at their subjects. For there was no doubt over who that stranger was.

"Edward Cullen brought me back someone I thought long-lost," she told her people. Yet they all remained mesmerized by him, by his imposing posture, by the feeling his blistering eyes caused as he held their gaze. "He returned my brother back to his country of birth," Rosalie smiled as she rose to stand next to him.

For a moment they did not have a crowd watching their every movement. It was only Rosalie and Edward there. "Welcome home," she said with such loaded emotion in her whisper that he could not help but smile.

The crowd did not really know how to react. How were they to react? But if Rosalie welcomed him, and Cullen had gotten him, then this man must be who they thought he was.

The son of a king.

Speculations arose swiftly after the gathering as to whom his mother was. It did not take long for the gossips to discover who Leonore of Valois was, and what position her brother currently held at the French court. The man who now walked the hallways bearing an uncanny resemblance to the late king was not only Angloan royalty, but French as well. Many tongues started wagging, and before the night was over, the news had already reached Coldwick.

That night, in the cover of darkness, Edward sought out his Isabella seeking her company and her flesh. He made love to her so intensely that she thought she would faint from the bursts of pleasure. And she reveled in the sensation of his skin upon hers. Yet, she noted the slight hint of worry present in his way, in his actions. But Edward did not speak any of it. He turned reclusive, holding his feelings back from her. Isabella thought he might divulge his sentiments once he had found his footing. It was not every day one stepped forth as the long-lost prince of a much-beloved king.

 _October 10th – New London_

"How pathetic they are," Victoria snapped as the messenger stepped back.

"The whole countryside is ablaze with nothing else, Your Majesty," Thorpe said in a nasal tone. "There might be some truth to these rumors."

But the queen chuckled as she cast him a sideways glance. "Do you truly believe so?" She was certain, more certain than anyone. She had seen to it that the child—a female nonetheless—was taken care of seventeen years ago. Whoever this pretender was, he had gotten the most important fact wrong; that of the gender.

"Whatever truth this matter holds, your sister together with this presumed brother of yours sits on more legitimacy now more than ever," Launël argued.

Victoria's eyes grew ablaze as she came shooting up from the throne. "You tread dangerously, Launël," she threatened with the snap of a viper. Yet she managed to make her words sultry, decadent to his ears.

Launël swallowed hard and took a step back. They knew that Rosalie would eventually try for New London once more, and they had to stop her with all their might. Victoria could not hold back anymore. Nothing seemed to work the way she wanted. For, indeed, no news of Isabella Swan's imminent death had reached her ears. That blasted woman still breathed and Victoria's attempt at killing her had failed—only managing to compromise the health of her sister and almost killing her. It was safe to say that the queen would not try such a trick again.

Alistair stood off to the side, his head shamefully turned down, the queen scarcely having spoken with him ever since his defeat in taking Adelton and Hayes. It seemed all men she sent out on a mission kept failing her.

Suddenly, a middle-aged man hastened to enter the vast and imposing throne room with neigh a moment to lose. He neared the throne, looking flustered as if he had just stepped off a horse.

Victoria still stood up, frowning as she did so. "Who dares intrude like this?"

But before he could answer. "I have ridden day and night to get this message to Your Majesty," he said, holding a note outstretched.

Lord Graham, steward of New London, grabbed the letter and went to hand it to the queen. "It comes from Lord Savoie," the man stuttered through gasps as he regained his breath.

Victoria took the letter and frowned at the hastily written thing, crumpled in her hands.

 _October 1st – Wessport_

"You do realize, Lord Durun, that this is highly unconventional," Lord Savoie spoke with a wrinkled nose, his French accent pronounced.

Lord Durun had been let into Wessport after two days of relentless waiting under a flag of truce, and true to that flag, he had not been harmed as he was led into the Blue Room where Savoie sat next to the throne, now the steward of Wessport.

"These are unconventional times, my lord Savoie," Durun answered. His roughened appearance clashed greatly with the fine gothic and pristine interior of Wessport Palace. The lord of the south took a slow look around, his mind wandering for a second. His mouth remained closed, but Savoie saw in his eyes the memories fleeting through. Last Durun had been there, Jasper had sat on the throne. It was such a distant past to him that he could not even begin to imagine those days of relative peace within the realm.

"You are not here to surrender," Savoie stated.

Walter Durun shook his head. "I am here on a mission to help you keep this city."

Savoie scoffed with furrowed brows, not quite understanding what the lord had meant. "What?"

"The English stepped ashore on Castell some months ago—"

The Frenchman put up a hand. "We know, we sent a delegation to speak with them, to buy time until Victoria dealt with Rosalie and—"

"That delegation has either been killed or taken captive because the English are now past Castell, with a massive army, marching upon Wessport." Durun stepped forth, trying to convey the urgency of their situation to the man before him. "They mean to take this city unless we combine our forces and stop them."

Savoie paled. Had Victoria and her followers truly been so engulfed by the conflict down south that she had not done more to deal with the threat from the north?"

"You declared your loyalty to Rosalie the day we took Wessport for Victoria."

"If you and I do not work together and we lose Wessport, there will not _be_ an Angloa left for either sister to govern anymore, Savoie. Do you understand that?" Durun asked sharply.

Savoie got up and started pacing before the man. "How do I know you speak the truth?" he turned to ask.

"Send scouts and they will tell you that the English are a week's march away, at best," he exclaimed. "I am offering you my men to help man Wessport against them."

Savoie would not take any chances and, thus, called for an aide to send some of the best scouts the city had to offer. Once the task was done, he looked at the rough man before him. There seemed no trace left of the refined lord that had once danced, dined and graced the halls with his presence. There was only a warrior before him now.

"If this is true, we should inform them," Savoie trailed off. "Both Rosalie and Victoria."

Durun nodded, the only real response he could give.

"I cannot let you leave until I receive a confirmation of what you have said," Savoie continued.

Walter had prepared for this. "They tell me the dungeons are indeed comfortable this time of year."

"I would never dare treat a lord such as yourself thusly. You shall have a bed and bath tonight, my lord." Savoie eyed him further. "And a change of clothes."

Times of war were always strange, but it seemed some hospitality and honor was still present, not yet washed away by the filth and blood of battle.

 _October 13th – Adelton Hall_

"Victoria left yesterday in haste. There is no real news on why she picked her things and decided to flee by ship," Rosalie kept reading the information given to her by one of their spies in New London.

Edward looked out the window, his stiff back facing the entourage of the assembly room as his sister kept reading the letter.

"What about her army?" asked Athar.

"They have not been seen, but it matters not. We should be able to take New London now that we have siege weapons," the princess continued, nodding in small thanks toward lords Irias, Raleigh, and Black.

Edward turned around and went to sit down next to her. He looked to Carlisle, dressed as the imposing General Cullen, to speak. Edward could not give away too much of his military training and expertise. He could not be compared to his masked self.

"Do we really have time to besiege the city now?" Carlisle asked in the dark, characteristic voice of Edward Cullen. He was rather good at impersonating his friend. Too good, Edward thought.

"Why would we pass this option?" Fawkes asked the masked general.

"Because," Carlisle said as he leaned forward rather heatedly. "We know the English are lurking in the north, yet we have no more news on them. If we start a siege and they attack, we are at a disadvantage."

"And what if Victoria fleeing New London has something to do with the English?" Edward said.

All heads turned to face him now. The southern lords nodded slowly while others looked indifferent.

"We tried for New London once before and failed," Saxton interrupted. "We would not fail again, Your Highness."

"We have enough men to man the gates, to take down the great walls," Raleigh uttered.

Edward knew a siege, a hasty one, would make many men on their side perish. They would win that battle, but how many would be left for the next one? He kept his mouth shut. They were not there to listen to the ramblings of a prince who had never presented his mastery in the battlefield.

As the session was over, Edward and Carlisle stood off in one corner, whispering. "Why do you not just step up and tell them the best option? We both know besieging New London now might cost us," Carlisle said.

"William Fell has no past in the military, not like Edward. If I go on about tactics, they would suspect me. And while I know you are more than able to, I cannot expect you and I to sync up our thoughts all the time." His eyes drifted to watch his sister leave the room, assisted by Glovendale.

"Rosalie looks paler and sicker by the day," Carlisle muttered.

"Don't remind me, this conflict is taking its toll on her," he sighed after her. "She should not be attending these meetings anymore, I think the stress they provoke is starting to affect her." He turned back to look at Carlisle and the masked man saw a hint of guilt in the green orbs.

"Then why not propose it?"

"I was at the Wessport court long enough to recognize a power play. The lords would suspect my intentions the minute I mentioned such a thing. We are trapped unless we get Rosalie herself to realize her fatigued state, and she is too stubborn." His jaw tensed as he ran a hand through his tousled hair. "I was supposed to help her, but what good am I doing?"

A gloved hand rested on his shoulder and served to calm him down. "You united the south, Edward," he whispered low enough only for them to hear."

Edward looked up at him. "We both know that is not the whole truth."

"But it is the truth. Edward Cullen _and_ William Fell brought together the strongest lords in Angloa. And that is all your doing," Carlisle trailed off as they were reminded of their arrival down at Nereeda, the southernmost region of Angloa."

 _Zafra was renowned for its beauty, for its unique architecture yet simplicity. Whitewashed houses lined the streets and green ivy and espaliers climbed the white walls, up to the wooden lined windows, the perfume of lilies and orange blossoms echoed through the city. Unlike Wessport, Zafra, and other southern cities were decidedly more Mediterranean in their way and fashion. Edward had never been so far south on the island before, had never seen such impressive and breathtaking views of his country._

 _They went into an empty tavern and Carlisle sat down before him, finding it hard to make conversation when his friend covered himself within a deep hood. They sat in a secluded corner, drinking their Madeira in contemplation._

" _I have gained an audience with Lord Irias in the morning," Carlisle stated as he downed the entire goblet of wine, quickly asking for another as their afternoon meal arrived: grilled venison with some vegetables._

" _I never knew Sir Carlisle Chaeld could open up so many doors," Edward said, reaching for the meat with his knife. "Impressive."_

 _Carlisle cut himself a piece. "I? I did nothing. The moment Irias heard Edward Cullen, The Lion of the North had come to see him himself, he was more than keen to meet you."_

 _The man in the hood paused for a long moment, nodding slowly. "You do know why we are here, why we have come all the way to Nereeda, right?"_

 _Carlisle shook his head. He had not known, and he had not asked. Edward put aside the knife and fished something out of his cape, casting it across the table to Carlisle._

 _The mask looked flimsy, yet strangely eye-catching in the dim light of the tavern. Carlisle' eyes widened as he saw the thin black leather stare back at him. His eyes darted back up to look at Edward but they were only met with the face peering out beneath the hood. Carlisle found the face of William Fell staring at him, completely unmasked._

" _My sister needs my help with the south. It is her belief I can deliver the lords to her. They believed in our father once, they might believe in his last living son and heir," Edward continued._

" _Tomorrow morning—"_

" _I will stand before Lord Irias as William." Edward leaned back and folded his arms. "And I will tell him everything…everything he needs to know to join Rosalie and me to fight Victoria."_

 _Carlisle picked up the mask. "And what will you do about General Cullen's absence?" His brow furrowed. The pleasant and relaxed aura in the tavern washed away to the running of his own blood rushing through his veins._

 _When Edward did not answer, Carlisle shook his head forcefully. "No!" he hissed and cast away the mask as if it had burned him. He stared at the shell of Cullen with fear._

" _I brought you for a reason, Carlisle." Edward leaned forward and pushed the hood back, his face catching the light of the wax candle. "I trust you," he said as he took the mask, stretching his hand over the table to hand it to him._

 _Carlisle stared at the mask long and hard, a feeling of dread settling in his stomach. "Wouldn't it be better to end the farce here?" he asked with reluctance._

" _You know I cannot do that. For ending the farce would place me on the throne…in the best scenario. Or it would render Rosalie abandoned in the worst. The lords would never stand by our side because I tricked them, because they will feel fooled."_

" _The lords are not as proud as you give them credit for—"_

 _Edward's face twisted into irritation. "I will not take my chances," he said, the arm still outstretched. His features softened. "But," he continued as Carlisle' eyes cast down. "Maybe, once it is all over and Rosalie sits on the throne, maybe then the truth could be revealed."_

 _He eyed the mask, the empty eyeholes grabbing at his soul. Carlisle shivered. His arm moved to grab for the small piece of clothing that, simply worn, would grant anyone power after the reputation Edward had built up around it._

 _Carlisle felt its weight in his hands. Such a light thing must feel heavier for Edward than it did him._

" _How long?" he asked._

" _I cannot promise anything," Edward continued. A semblance of guilt crossed his features, stifled by the flickering light. "Probably until the conflict with Victoria is over and Rosalie claims Wessport," he said._

 _Carlisle' hand clutched the mask tighter. "Then I will wear it, my friend," he said. Edward looked up, almost startled by the words emerging from the man before him._

 _Carlisle looked at the mask again. "This life you have led," he murmured, deep in thought. "Coming back to Angloa, having to discover what you did about your family, having to see this internal strife—I can never imagine how hard that was." He looked up and golden orbs met with forest greens. "But that you would return to Rosalie as William Fell to help her, shows that you care for Angloa enough to sacrifice this wall you built up around yourself. If I can help you keep the only thing you could never give up, then I am happy to do so."_

 _Edward's eyes shone, almost glazed over in wonderment, in strange amazement at his friend's words. "You would take that burden for me?"_

" _For you…and for Isabella," Carlisle said, hiding the mask in the folds of his own cape._

* * *

 _Lord Irias was well known in Angloa, for his house was the oldest one in the history of the country. Older, even, than the Fell dynasty. His lineage had been around back to the time of the three kings, back even to before the conquering of the English. If anyone could boast of pure noble blood, it was Lord Irias._

 _Yet, the middle-aged man was liked, because he did not let such a thing go to his head. He was calm, analyzing. He kept away from court life because he had no higher aspirations. Irias was happy with what he had, the Dukedom of Nereeda, the claim of the southernmost tip of the island._

 _When Rosalie Fell had called for him, had asked him to join her fight against her sister, he had stayed out of it. The Irias family had survived thus far by not getting involved. And it would continue in that tradition._

 _But, the day arrived, a warm summer's eve when Edward Cullen, renowned General of Angloa, now made Field Marshal by Rosalie herself, begged an audience. And how, indeed, could Irias ignore that?_

 _His palace in Zafra was not as awe-inspiring as the one in New London, nor as grand as the one in Wessport. But it held its own charm. It was a simple medieval fortress, etched into the hill of a cliff by the sea by his ancestors. The white beaches stretched out beneath the castle and on a clear day, they could spot the coast of Portugal as a thin line in the distance._

 _He kept the neighboring lords close in comradery. Lord Raleigh and Black got along well with him and it was not uncommon for them to spend the summer hunting and relaxing in the castle of Zafra._

 _His Chamberlain soon announced the arrival of two men. The entire elite of Zafra and her surroundings had gathered in the Grand Hall to get a view of the masked visage of the fearsome general._

 _His name echoed against the rough stone as he entered through the grand doors, bearing his black garb and mask. A man in a hood accompanied him, keeping behind, taller to those who noticed._

" _We are intrigued by this visit, general," Irias welcomed from his seat by the long table. His hall was not a throne, and he would not pretend to be king. Thus, he did not sit elevated above the rest._

 _The general bowed his head, a show of respect._

" _As am I, amazed at the beauty of your city and her inhabitants," the somber voice answered. He came to a halt, a few feet from the thin and gangly lord. For Irias was thinner than most, his cheeks hollow and eyes sunken in. Something severe etched out his eyes. Yet, he seemed wiser than his years, as if he had lived an entire life already._

" _But that is not why you are here," Lord Black said in his seat next to his friend. He was burlier, stronger. His hair was the same color as his son's. For he and Jacob did indeed share the same features. The same kind eyes, the same black hair. But Black's gaze, while looking severe, did not hold that undertone of gentility and kindness to it that Irias had._

" _Indeed not, my lord," came the voice again. Ladies present fanned themselves erratically, each tone he pronounced making them jump in place. "You, together with Lord Irias and Raleigh, have a force equal in strength to that of Victoria."_

" _And we have decided not to join this conflict," Irias interrupted._

" _We told Her Highness as much when she last came here," Black added, leaning back in the chair. "Why would you change our minds?" He ignored the sharp look her received from his friend._

" _While your presence here is indeed an agreeable one, joining this battle could mean the doom of us," Irias interrupted._

" _We took Adelton," the masked general said._

" _But you failed to claim New London," Irias continued. When Edward remained silent, he continued. "Word travels fast on this island."_

" _Then you must know of the English having stepped ashore at Castell."_

 _Irias nodded. "Once this conflict is over, they will leave," he said._

" _You are no fool, my lord. You know very well such a thing will not come to pass. The only way they will leave is if you join this fight."_

" _Rosalie is losing; has already lost many to the siege of New London. We know you stayed behind so that she might escape, but it cost you many men." Black leaned forward. "Why should we join you now? In your darkest hour? Give us a reason, general. One reason." He looked like he truly wanted one, as if deep within himself, he truly wished to join them._

" _Legitimacy over Victoria," the dark voice spoke._

 _Irias' brow furrowed. "She is the first-born, Cullen."_

" _But if you thought her legitimate, you would have joined her in a heartbeat. The reason you remain here, hidden in the south, is because you do not support her claim to the throne."_

" _Aye, as we cannot support Rosalie's claim to the throne," Black interrupted._

" _But you agree that she would make a better ruler," the dark voice spoke._

" _Anyone would make a better ruler than Victoria."_

" _And if I had the legitimate heir of Philip Fell supporting Rosalie, would you then join?" the masked man asked._

" _Edmund Fell died decades ago. He is no more." Irias had jumped to an irrational conclusion._

 _The masked general shook his head as all eyes of the grand hall were set on him now. "I am not talking about Edmund Fell."_

" _Then who—" Black began, now utterly confused as he stared at both men._

 _The masked man stepped forth. "We all know the other marriage of Philip Fell, the forgotten one."_

" _Leonore Valois never had a child," Black snapped. "And that you would suggest otherwise is almost blasphemous. Do not tell me you are trying to pass someone off as the child of Philip and Leonore? Don't be ridiculous!" he growled while rising up from his seat offended. "Leonore disappeared from Wessport the night of Philip's death never to be heard from again!"_

 _The men standing before them remained calm and collected. "She gave birth to a son, the legitimate heir to the throne. Yet, he does not seek it. But maybe telling you is not enough, my lords," he said and turned around._

 _He motioned for the man in the hood to step forth. "Show them yourself, Your Highness," he bowed._

 _And all held their breath as the man in the hood walked forth slowly, tediously, his hand moving up until it reached the edge of the deep hood._

 _Irias was completely mesmerized by the movements of the stranger. Black did not move a muscle. The rest of the castle felt their skin crawl with anticipation as a hand pushed the hood back until a face peeked out from beneath it._

 _A face they all knew too well. A face only seen in paintings._

 _The living image of Philip Fell._

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you have enjoyed this chapter as much as I have writing it! Thank you for the wonderful reviews, so glad seeing more people find their way to this trilogy! Not many chapters left now! :D**

 **Hopefully I'll have time to update again this weekend (I do not want to make any promisses though!)**

 **As always, if you enjoyed this chapter, please feel free to leave a review, I always appreciate them!**

 **Cheers!**


	23. Chapter 23

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 23_

 _October 14th, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

"But taking New London might not be the best move right now, Rosalie. You're unwell, and we might lose more men than we can afford in the siege."

Edward sat opposite his sister in her chambers, the aging princess paler than usual, her face sunken in. Her breath rattled ever so slightly in her chest. She needed rest; the symptoms of stress ever prevalent on her features. Yet, she paid him no heed.

"Worry not for me, William," she shook as if there was nothing amiss. Before Rosalie could continue, he grabbed her by the shoulders.

"You are wasting away," he snapped through a clenched jaw. "And if you left me too…I do not think I could bear it." His eyes cast down, his hands still clinging to her brittle arms, afraid he would break her. Rosalie's lips spread in a smile.

She took his face in her hands. "I am not wasting away, William. 'Tis the stress of it all. Once we take New London, all shall be well. I promise you," she continued. There was such an assuredness in her tone of speech that he had no other choice but to trust her.

She got up to sit next to her brother and held him in a long embrace. "You came back as William for me, I will never forget that," she sighed to him. "Now another favor is needed. I need you to go with Carlisle and the lords to New London and claim it for our side. The other lords need to see that you are involved in this as well. And we do not know how long Victoria—or the English—will give us this chance. Better to have it now before winter settles," she said.

Footsteps echoed past the door as maids and servants rushed up and down the castle corridors. Mrs. Hammond had her hands full with her new guests.

Isabella would idle in the Palas. But before the chaos of day erupted, she would take her horse on a ride through Raven's Grove and revel in its tranquility. The forest that had previously frightened her as a child now served as a blanket of comfort. It was her protector, her wall between her haven and the wrath of Victoria.

The decision on moving against New London came up several times until the conclusion was final. Before the end of October, they would venture north and capture the city and claim it as theirs. It was the utmost wish of Rosalie that they do so.

The wounded of the Palas settled as night fell, most falling asleep to the embracing darkness. Alas, one man did not idle. As soon as the light of the sun washed away, a figure struggled to slip away. Many hours had been spent going back and forth in his mind of the decision he should take. He had finally settled on a plan of action.

Alan Moore ventured past the guards on his makeshift crutch—his leg-stump not yet healed. He had lost a leg in Adelton but gained much more. Confidence in himself, a new reason for living. The near-death experience had made a new man of him. He was reborn.

And in the darkness, he stole a horse—making haste, despite the searing pain in his amputated limb. It almost caused him to fall off the beast. He made haste to Raven's Grove, with one destination in mind.

 _October 18th_

Brilliant rays of sunlight caress the carpet of reds and golds stretching over the valley. The soldiers notice how each breath they take fills their lungs with a penetrating cold, full of a freshness they haven't been able to taste during the whole of summer.

The inhabitants of Hayes stare at the vast crowd of platoons, of the suited captains and generals, the marshals and leftenants. Plated armor reflecting the rays of the sun, chainmail clinking under steel plate, spears, and arrows loaded into carts, muskets, cannons, and trebuchets readied and packed away.

Nervous horses and their riders shift where they stand as mules dragging carts with packed away tents and food waits patiently on the road leading to Raven's Grove.

There was a sense of anticipation, of eagerness almost. New London would be taken. The sapphire city would become theirs to claim and Rosalie would ride to ascend the throne. Many faces turned as William Fell rode accompanied by Edward Cullen through the throng. They held such high hopes because of the presence of the prince and the general. With the legitimacy William presented, the knowledge of Cullen and the backing of the south, they could not fail.

On their steeds, Edward seated on a white stallion and Carlisle, dressed as the imposing general, on Cid; the gray stallion. They murmured to each other.

"Remember, when the lords gather in war council, you keep to the shadows and say as little as possible. If I cast my eyes down, it means you should not agree with them. If my eyes remain on the same spot, you say nothing."

"I have fought by your side, Edw—er _Your Highness_ , I think I know well how to react in your stead. All it takes is a little brooding," the masked man smiled.

Edward snickered at him, not able to hide the slight smirk pressing on his lips. "Oh, you think yourself an expert on my behavior, now do you?" he asked with a grin.

"Playing this part is easier than you think," Carlisle grinned back.

They rode up to the head of the long train where most lords stood, together with Isabella, Renée and Sofia. Edward stopped his horse, knowing there would be no tender farewell between the two. "Do not get too carried away with her, my friend. Some boundaries should not be overstepped—"

"I will not, Edward," Carlisle whispered his way as they got off their horses. While he walked up to Isabella and Sofia, Edward walked up to Lord Athar.

"Where is my sister?" he asked in what he figured was now his normal voice. Gone was the brooding growl, the imposing low tone of Cullen.

Athar shook his head. "She is fatigued and could not come. But Her Royal Highness wishes you a safe campaign. With Cullen, experienced as he is on the field, you should feel safe, Your Highness," Athar assured.

Edward arched an eyebrow. Lords Irias and Fawkes were in a hushed discussion. Lord Black stood off to the side, Jacob avoiding his father.

"Has he said what vexes him so with Lord Black?" Edward went over and whispered to Carlisle as he approached him.

"He has avoided me for days," he whispered back.

It boded ill, seeing their friend thus. They had known beforehand that Jacob spoke little—or avoided speaking—of his father. They would often wonder what strained their relationship. Had Jacob avoided an engagement? Had he fled to fight in the war? Or was it just that the two simply didn't get along? Edward's critical eyes looked at his dark-haired friend. Maybe, during this campaign, he could coax it out of Jacob.

 _October 19_ _th_ _– Wessport_

The harbor was still open for them and a carriage had been there to take her to her palace with Alistair and Launël accompanying her. The moment they had stepped foot into the Throne Room, Savoie had been there with Lord Durun by his side.

"What is that traitor doing without chains?" she demanded imposingly as she saw him well-dressed and well-fed next to Savoie. Her voice carried with it the might and force of a true ruler, for Victoria made sure no one doubted her status.

"Your Majesty, he was the one who warned us against the English," Savoie said.

"They were supposed to remain by Castell!" Victoria growled.

In the presence of her lords, she started pacing back and forth. "Your Majesty, the rumor that you had the aid of the English to help with this coup grows stronger and stronger. Is there…any truth to it?" Launël asked, afraid what the answer might be.

She turned to him, her fiery tresses flying loose from the elegant up-do, the small golden tiara askew atop her head, her wrinkles standing out as she frowned. "How _dare_ you, Launël. I ought to—"

"The rumors are true," Durun interrupted with little ceremony. "Unfortunately." His dark eyes squinted as he eyed her, looking at the truth of the despicable woman hiding behind the finery and jewel incrusted splendor of a queen.

All heads turned to look at him. "Lies!" Victoria growled. "Lies spawned by my sister to fracture our strong alliance."

But Durun paid her no heed. "Shall you show her or shall I?" he turned to Savoie. The ashen face of the Frenchman grew paler and paler as Victoria's golden orbs pierced him and her aura of malice and anger suffocated him.

"Your Majesty better see this, then—with her own eyes." He bowed as she waited for him to show her the way. And they all walked after Savoie and Durun, momentarily forgetting that Walter Durun was, in fact, the enemy.

They walked up the stairs of the palace, to the highest tower of the building. Savoie forced the shutters open and stepped past the dried pigeon waste that graced the top of the building. Victoria pulled up the hem of her purple skirts and stared at the northern horizon in complete defeat.

There, on the fields below Wessport—stretching up to the north—was a sea of men, of soldiers. The cross of Saint George flapped in the strong wind, announcing who the invader was. Launël and Alistair peered past her shoulder and dropped their mouths at the sight of the vast army.

An army that meant to take Wessport.

 _October 20_ _th_ _– New London_

He had never been witness to the splendor of the Sapphire city. New London was unlike anything Alan had ever dreamt of before. With white walls rising to meet a pink, blossoming sky, turrets with roofs sparkling blue as soft twilight beams kissed them farewell.

He clung onto the stolen horse and let it take him through the gates. When asking to speak with Lord Quinn and Graham, he was let in after giving his credentials: his sworn fealty to Queen Victoria, and his proof of having worked once with Captain Forster and Lord Braun.

Every step of the way had pained him, pained his missing limb; the wound that would never fully heal.

While night fell, the streetlights were lit up and brought on with it the golden shimmer of dancing flames. But most breathtaking of all were the twinkling stars splattered across a dark blue canopy in the heavens above. Alan let the soldiers lead him through the busy streets.

There was a normalcy to the city to which he was no longer used to. It was almost as if New London was a safe haven against the ongoing conflict taking place outside of her walls.

Impeccably clean streets with stalls taken down after a busy day's work met him. Tall structures and buildings climbed up a small hill that stretched far up to the impressive palace in the distance, overlooking the splendor of the sea. New London always glinted west, to a horizon that, twenty-eight years prior, had been a mystery to them all. And it still was. New London, while still burdened and tainted by once being the seat of Angloa's oppressors, set her eye to the New World, almost as if willing to change.

And Alan could sense it in the air. The city breathed life into him. A life he thought he would never know again. She gripped his soul and he never wanted to leave it.

The final road leading up to the palace was lined in tall cypress trees to the bright castle; Aldea. Vast and broad columns stretched to the skies, domes painted in the same sapphire blue as the rest of the city. Orange and Lemon trees grew among the cypress trees dotting the landscape next to the palace.

Just like Adelton Hall, yet so very different, Aldea was the center of her region, her heart. She had been built long before the English and sustained many blows, many attacks. Unlike the somber and gothic architecture of the rest of Europe, she was soft in the edges, elegant, massive. While marred from years of hardship and suffering, the palace of New London bore her scars proudly.

Alan was guided up the avenue to the massive gates, up the marble steps, crooning his neck to catch a glimpse of the intricate marble forest that greeted him. The rounded arch had only a black iron fence that twisted and curled its way up like grapevines to meet the elegant arch. No wooden doors shut the entrance, thus letting light—either of sun or moon—to seep in.

He was led all the way to a back room where the steward of the city, Lord Graham himself, met with the awestricken man.

Graham stepped back in the octagonal room, the tall, painted windows, letting the silver light filter through blues, greens, and yellows. He knew the effect New London and Aldea had on newcomers.

"The guards tell me you bring me information," Graham broke the enthralled man with a charming voice, very suited to the place in which they found themselves. Lord Graham was very young to be a steward. His blonde locks were slicked back, and brown eyes spoke of a deeper understanding than Alan could ever begin to comprehend.

"I was told Lord Quinn would be here as well," Alan continued.

Graham's lips settled in a thin line. He had a small mole just above the left corner of his mouth. "I am afraid Lord Quinn has been cast aside by Her Majesty."

"I need to speak with him," Alan continued, leaning heavily on the makeshift cane. Graham did not offer him to sit.

"Why?"

Alan's eyes narrowed. "Are you true in your loyalty toward Her Majesty?" he asked carefully.

"My loyalty to the crown is always true," Graham answered. He was indeed very charming, his manner of acting more of a politician than anything else.

"I am come here to warn Her Majesty that Rosalie is amassing her army to ride on New London and take the city." He looked sheepishly at the steward. "I have information that will stop her army once and for all."

 _October 22_ _nd_

The soldiers—together with horses, mules and various loaded carts—moved through Raven's Grove like a centipede slipping through the moss or cracks in a tree. Tediously they inched forward, the rhythm of their march hanging in the air in a distant melody.

Edward sat astride his white stead, green orbs scanning the everchanging canopy. Next to him rode Carlisle and Jacob in somber silence. The leaves would sometimes float down, cutting the few invasive sunbeams which managed to penetrate the leafy roof. The only paved road of Raven's Grove that lead to Sorossa quickly became muddy as they plowed through.

Edward, like all who made up that vast army, knew what awaited once they broke through the protective forest. And, yet, they kept pace, willing to arrive at New London as soon as possible. Many could not wait to see the blue rooftops of the sapphire city once more. She would be theirs to claim, and rightfully so. The war could turn now, and this battle would show if Rosalie ever had a chance for the throne or not.

It had taken them five days to break out of the massive forest at the slow pace that they moved. The horses and mules braved on, all breathing a bit easier as they saw the vast Sorossa grasslands stretch beyond the horizon.

Edward stared into the distance, the vast army amassing behind him, Carlisle and Jacob. The trio remained silent for a short while.

Fawkes and Saxton, together with some other officers, could not help but stare at the three men in silent awe. "We shall win this," one officer dared speculate.

Saxton rose an eyebrow as he turned to the leftenant. "Wishing something to be true does not make it so," he added.

The leftenant shook his head with laughter. "Mayhap you are right, Lord Saxton," he spoke. Then a gloved hand swept past the footsoldiers who had sat down to rest. "But look at them, look at how they contemplate those three men," he said.

Saxton and Fawkes turned to see. Indeed, the soldiers stared at the group of three men, perched upon a small hill as they looked across the sea of grass, toward the northwest.

"The awe they hold in their eyes is not for His Highness, leftenant," Fawkes winked. "Tis' for their general, for the fact that they will fight alongside the Lion of the North once more."

Indeed, it was true. Many soldiers there wanted to boast of having fought side by side with Edward Cullen. That the last living son of Philip Fell was there as well, was indeed great, but what did he know of war? Like any other sheltered aristocrat, never having stepped foot onto the battlefield, he would be lost once the real fighting began.

William Fell, many felt, did not belong on the battlefield.

They decided it was time to set up camp for a few days and rest, preparing for the next part of their journey. When his tent was up, Edward called Carlisle to enter his own tent, the largest of them all. He was, after all, still a prince. And he was treated as such.

"I need your clothes, Carlisle," Edward deadpanned once the masked man had stepped inside.

He could see that Carlisle was confused. "You wish to go around as Cullen, now?"

Edward nodded slowly and sat down on a stool, the elegant Persian rug, the exquisite furniture too out of place in such an otherwise harsh environment. "You know I like to wander about camp and get the general air, understand what the men are thinking. I cannot do that as William," he said.

Carlisle turned around, walking to the opening of the tent, looking out to make sure no one was in too close of a proximity. He turned around, making sure the entrance was tied shut. "What if someone comes here, seeking William Fell out? Carlisle Chaeld stayed behind with Isabella Swan in Adelton Hall upon your request."

Jacob stepped forth suddenly, walking up to his friends. "I will not let anyone enter, Carlisle. They will have no reason to."

Carlisle looked at his friends for a long time before he removed the mask, delighting at the cool air pressing against his face. He did still not understand how Edward could have managed such a masquerade for three years. "We find ourselves in quite the difficult situation if anyone were to find us out," he said.

"Edward reached for the mask and stared at the leather shell of himself with a frown. "Maybe…when we take New London; when this battle has been fought, I will step forth and reveal just who Edward Cullen really is. I cannot keep up this façade much longer, I am afraid." He removed the brocade doublet in gold and royal blue, together with the quilted cape. Carlisle handed him the leather doublet in black and his gloves, together with his intricate sword and knife, hanging from the dark belt.

"Have you spoken to Rosalie of this?" Jacob asked while Edward dragged the doublet over the fabric jerkin, making sure it sat comfortably. He ignored the question as his head disappeared into the black mask, something he had not worn in weeks. It was strangely alien to him to have it on once more; as if he had never worn it, to begin with.

The Edward they knew so well was once more before them, and having the true Edward Cullen before them, made Carlisle' impression of him pale in comparison. There was only one General Cullen.

He tied the belt around his waist and dragged on the leather gloves. He stretched his neck in the mask and cleared his voice before heading for the opening of the tent. Edward then hesitated and turned around. "Do not leave this place until I return," he told them both.

Carlisle nodded, his face had grown pale. He had not realized that he had forgotten what it was like seeing his old friend in that mask. But having the true Lion of the North standing before him was truly a sight and he did not realize he had missed having his old friend back. The glint in Jacob's eyes told that he was thinking the same thing.

The true Edward Cullen stepped outside the tent and they held their breath. "I think he misses it," Jacob whispered, afraid to break the tense silence.

Carlisle looked about the vast interior of the tent and went for the tray of cups and casket of wine which had been prepared for the prince. He poured two glasses and handed one over to Jacob.

"He definitely misses being Cullen," Carlisle smirked as he raised his glass. Jacob mimicked his action.

"To what are we toasting then?" asked the younger man with a frown.

"To the brief return of General Cullen, the Lion of the North." He hesitated for an instant until a smirk spread his handsome features. "And to our success on the battlefield."

* * *

Many who had been sitting around fires and boiling stews, stood up as General Cullen walked across the camp, his dark aura spreading about him. He cut through camp with an air which seemed larger than life. They sensed him before they saw him. Many soldiers who had not seen that many battles felt a sense of security as they saw the imposing stature of the masked man pass them.

"General," some mumbled as they inclined their heads in a sign of respect.

Edward did not realize until then how much he had missed that part of his life. While the mask had always brought with it a scrutiny and distaste for him, it had also brought with it respect—something which he had achieved on his own. It had not been handed to him. When he had paced across camp some hours earlier as William Fell, they had stared in wonder at his likeness to his father. But they had stared at the prince and shied away from him. He was far above them, and Edward wondered if they would ever come to respect the prince like they had the scarred general.

He kept going until he arrived at Fawkes' tent. He found the old lord in a heated discussion with Lord Irias and Saxton.

The moment they saw the masked man, they all nodded toward him. Fawkes could not say what it was, but something about the masked man seemed different. Somehow, without being able to put his finger on it, the man standing before him seemed _more_ , however strange it felt to think that way. It was as if the Edward Cullen he had been seeing the past few weeks had been a mere shell of himself, excessively brooding, silent and keeping to the shadows—much like when they had all lived in Wessport right after the war. But now came the man he had gotten to know during the war and in Adelton Hall. Someone he could count on.

"I thought you were with His Highness, Cullen," Saxton stated. He went past the strategical table with all their infantries placed around a makeshift template of New London. Edward eyed him as he went to a rounded casket and filled a cup with what looked like Father Nicholas' mead.

"I was," he answered in his dark voice.

Emmett walked over to the masked man with the cup and handed it to him, staring directly into his eyes. "Did His Highness get tired of you so quickly?" he chuckled.

Edward's lips pressed together before he took a swig out of the cup. It was Nicholas' mead alright. "I am not the type to hang around for the mere sake of hanging around," he stated.

"I agree," Fawkes added. "You do not strike me as the sort to entertain royalty," he chuckled. When he received the piercing glance from the masked general, however, he quickly turned quiet.

"What is your general view on William?" he asked them, dragging a stool across the interior of the tent and sitting across both lords. Saxton came to sit next to him.

Irias remained silent, he did as he had always done. Keeping his opinion to himself and listening to others had kept him safe thus far. Fawkes, however, loved stating his thoughts. "I cannot say yet. But the lad is young, has probably never seen a battle in his life. I think he is biting off more than he can chew," Fawkes said.

Edward kept a chuckle from escaping. "That is the impression he gives you?"

"Not really. He seems almost too calm. And if he has never fought in a war before, he should be more agitated, royal prince or not," Saxton added.

Edward nodded slowly, cursing himself. He supposed he should have tried to feign more. But the damage was already done. These lords only respected his royal name, not the man himself. Before he revealed himself, he needed them to respect William equally as much as they did Edward.

"There is yet little we know about him," the masked man said.

"Yet you knew where to find him," Saxton added.

"Where did you find him?" asked Fawkes.

"The first time was much more east of here, not in Angloa at all," Edward said.

"But how did you know where to search when Rosalie asked you to?" Fawkes continued.

Edward sat back and placed the half-full cup of mead on the war-table. "Before I came to fight for Jasper, on the coast of south-western France, I met him, living secluded near the Pyrenees. He did not live much better than a farmer and worked and toiled for his own food. He had no servants, no people who would do anything for him. Whatever food he ate, he had procured himself, whatever robes he wore, he had put on his own back with his own money." Edward turned to the three lords. "Say what you will of him, my lords, but he is not a spoiled prince who has lived a life of luxury his whole life. The death of his mother and constantly having to flee saw to that."

They all remained silent for a while, letting the words sink in.

"So, you didn't find him in the court of the French?" Fawkes asked.

"Why would he be there?" Edward frowned.

"His uncle is the damn king of France, of all those rich and vast lands," another voice said. It was Lord Tyris walking in, followed by Lord Wilson. They had been the lords from Sorise who had run with their tails between their legs when it looked the darkest for Rosalie. While their armies were greatly appreciated, their fickle nature was not.

"What is your point?" Edward stated in a low and menacing voice. He made it very clear what he thought of the southern lord.

"That he should seek help from the French! We would not only wipe out Victoria's forces instantly; but the English as well!"

Edward stood up and felt his jaw tense up. "And tell me, my lord, when the French have helped us; seen that we needed their aid to solve this conflict, do you really think they would simply leave these lands? Would François Valois merely lend us, say five thousand men, just like that? With nothing in return?"

Fawkes arched an eyebrow as a smirk crept up his features.

"We have an army strong enough to take New London, let us not get too greedy," Edward continued. "I do not think we would like the price the French asked up if they were to give aid."

"How can you know what they would ask?" asked Wilson.

The masked general held Wilson's eyes with his. It was enough time for it to be uncomfortable for the other lords. Wilson finally looked to the ground, prompting Edward to speak. "Because that is what I would do," he growled.

The corner of Saxton's lips twitched. There was the Edward he knew, finally back and ready to jump into action.

 _October 24_ _th_ _– New London_

The walls of New London towered high. Taking the city by force via land was not an option. But winter neared and, although their supplies were plentiful, they would not last it if their seaway was blocked as well. Taking New London by sea was also difficult. A bay enclosed around the grand city with a closed entry, guarded day and night. But if Rosalie Fell had enough ships and men, she might attack from both sides.

Lord Graham had readied the men of the city. Quinn—having been left behind by Victoria, together with Cardinal Thorpe—watched in tension as New London now also saw the pressure of Angloa's conflict. Soldiers and guards marched down the streets, either to the vast harbor or the outer wall, ready to defend it at any cost.

Lord Quinn sat silently in the window, looking at the mayhem as the city prepared for the invader. Cardinal Thorpe was in the room with him. Quinn had never liked the cardinal, ordained bishop of Wessport by the church. The man was fickle, a born politician and knew well how to play the game. But even the witty old man seemed nervous. For, indeed, if Rosalie's forces took the city, he would most likely not benefit from it.

"They will not take down these walls that have stood strong for four hundred years," Thorpe snickered to himself as his fingers drummed the elegant mahogany table. They were in one of the many rooms of Aldea, the palace of New London. They overlooked the lower city, the only other features standing out about the city was its old aqueduct, its magnificent cathedral—rivaling the palace itself—and the vast wall.

Quinn leaned against the side of the window, resting his worried forehead on the cool stone as the colors of autumn danced in the fields gracing the horizon, beyond the walls. "They said Rome or Constantinople could never be sacked, Thorpe. Look at what happened to them," the disgraced lord muttered.

He heard a chair scrape against the polished stone floor, the tapping of leather slippers and the rustling of robes as Thorpe paced about the small room. "If you had stayed in Adelton and never met them in an open field, we would not be finding ourselves in this situation," Thorpe spat to Quinn.

The lord bit back a sharp remark. "Yet, Her Majesty decided to leave you behind for a reason."

"Aye, she trusts me more than she does Graham," Thorpe muttered.

"I think she trusts more in _me_ than she does Graham," Quinn mused. "The lords of New London are too refined for her, not even comparable to us from Wessport. They know exactly what to say and how to frame it. She doesn't like their pragmatics."

Thorpe went to the vast window as well, watching the golden fields as the last harvest was being gathered. "The English are said to have ridden down from Castell to Wessport, set on taking the city," he muttered.

"She will not give up her city without a fight."

The cardinal remained silent, the inner works of his brain starting, trying to figure out his part in the grand game. " _When dead men return from the past, Angloa shall crack as loyalties and friendships are cast_ ," the cardinal started, letting the final syllables rest on the tip of his tongue.

Quinn's lips turned into a thin line at words he knew all too well. An old poem, from the time of the English occupation, rang true now as well.

Suddenly the warning bell rang throughout the city and both men stood stiffly, looking out the window, scanning with their eyes in the distance.

They could almost feel the marching rhythm of the army before they saw it, banners and spears rising up in the distance, the golden fields evacuated and the loud doors to New London booming shut as the eerie silence settled. Alas, snorting horses and the sound of an army, its clinking shields, weapons, and carts sounded in the distance.

Rosalie's forces had arrived.

* * *

 **A/N: Yet another chapter. I hope you will have enjoyed this one as well! I thank you once again for your amazing reviews. I am overworking the final chapters which means that I cannot give you an estimate on how many there are left ;) Just know that we are steadily nearing the end, everyone!**


	24. Chapter 24

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 24_

 _October 24_ _th_ _, 1520 – New London_

They imagined death had come to claim their city. The guards stood poised atop the mighty wall, watching the army prepare for battle. Their muskets and arrows stood ready, the trebuchets had been mounted. Rosalie's forces would not besiege the city, they would _take_ it one way or another.

Edward stood inside the vast tent, the winds a biting chill to them, managing to punch through the fabric just enough for them to notice the cold. The morning fog had long since lifted and fields once golden were now trampled down.

The generals, lords and other officers, stood preparing their final plan of action. Edward, Jacob, and Carlisle stood off to the side, both silently listening to Fawkes and Saxton go over their plan.

Lord Irias, Raleigh, and Black sat along, listening to each and every word. The lords from Sorise felt the color drain from their faces as their armies would be sacrificed to lead the frontal attack on the wall.

"Our men shall perish!" Wilson exclaimed in anger. "Why should our men take the bulk of the battle?"

"Maybe you shouldn't have abandoned Her Royal Highness, then," Carlisle muttered darkly, provoking a laughing snort in Jacob.

They ignored his protest and continued going over their plan. "Are we all agreed on this?" asked Fawkes as he locked eyes with the men in the room. He received stern nods, most stiff before the fight.

Edward prepared to step outside and get into his armor when Carlisle and Fawkes remained behind. "Your Highness," Fawkes called after him.

Edward stopped by the opening of the tent, seeing Fawkes, Carlisle, Irias, and Raleigh still gathered around the table. "We wish for you to stay behind."

His brow furrowed as he stepped back inside and went over to the men. Edward remained silent, letting them explain.

"With all due respect, you are here because the men need to know that we have the right on our side. The son of Philip Fell fighting for a just cause and for his sister is as noble as it can get. But if you get onto that field, not prepared, we lose an important figure—"

The prince put up a hand in silence, his jaw stiff and Fawkes almost shuddered at the likeness he now held to his father. A sense of arrogance managed to touch his features. "I am not incompetent, Lord Fawkes, nor would I be here if I did not know how to defend myself." His eyes glanced about the interior of the tent. "I am not the one aspiring to claim the throne. If I perish on that battlefield, Rosalie will still have taken New London, I will still have rallied the south to join _her_ cause."

"But, Your Highness—" Raleigh began. "If you were to fall—"

"I will not fall." Edward fought hard not to growl, for he knew he would give himself away. His tone remained cool, smooth and charming despite his irritation.

"Regardless, we ask that you remain here," Irias asked, his enigmatic eyes bearing into Edward's. He headed out of the tent, accompanied by a fumbling Raleigh.

Fawkes and Saxton stood behind a little bit longer. "We are only worried about your safety, Your Highness," Saxton added.

Edward turned his back on them, his shoulders tense, his jaw squared as both men walked out. When he was alone in the tent with Carlisle, he let his anger blossom up in a growl.

"You are a blue-blood now, and blue-bloods cannot just haplessly ride in the front lines, Edw—William," Carlisle added.

"This is political, Carlisle!" This was what he had feared. "The only reason I am here is because of my father's name and the likeness I bear to him. I am certain both Irias and Raleigh do not want me on the field because they mean to keep their grasp on me," he growled. "And I _need_ to be in that battle!" he stated with force. "You know the plan."

Carlisle frowned. "Are you insisting Irias and Raleigh are plotting to use you against Rosalie, in a time such as this?"

Edward raked a hand through his hair. "Irias is one of the smartest men Angloa has ever known, apparently. Even when Magnus took the throne, he knew what cards to play to remain out of the intrigue. Not even Rebecca Trienne dared involve herself with him. He holds the south together with Raleigh." He turned to Carlisle. "Why do you think Victoria did not force him to proclaim her as his queen? She knows how fickle that man can be. Unfortunately, there are many like him in Angloa. And I am certain he would rather have someone he could control on the throne than my sister with her level head. After all, even if I am my father's son, they only know that I've been raised as no more than a farmer."

Carlisle let a small smile touch the corner of his mouth. "Come, come, has that ever stopped you before?" he asked as he neared his friend.

Edward looked at him for a long while. "No—"

Carlisle shrugged. "A normal armor with a closed helmet is enough to shield any famous face," Carlisle blinked. "And fighting in my platoon, together with Jacob is enough to get you away from those pesky old lords."

Edward was grinning now as well. What Carlisle said was true; he had not come there to be seen fighting as William Fell or Edward Cullen. He had come to claim the city for Rosalie in whatever way he could. "Could you please procure an armor for me?" he asked his friend. "And another horse," he blinked as he headed for the opening of the tent. Carlisle shrugged his shoulders while shaking his head.

* * *

The might of Rosalie's army could be seen as it neared the wall. Siege towers and trebuchets were dragged forth to a good distance for shooting while archers, bowmen, lancers, riders and clanking armor pulled forth like a massive wave of death, stomping down the golden fields of Sorossa.

The horses snorted, their riders agitated. The first wave was to approach. Fawkes and Saxton had one-third of the army. Lord Wilson and Tyris led their foot-soldiers and bowmen to the front, carrying siege towers and ladders. Atop the wall could be seen a long line of shooters, ready to defend New London at every cost.

Rosalie's army pushed forth with their might. They saw Edward Cullen on his magnificent gray stallion, Cid, and they were assured nothing would stop them from losing this battle. Even the soldiers atop the wall of New London could not miss the man garbed in black, his sword dragged out of its sheath and his black armor catching a few glints of the evasive sun as puffy white clouds lazily drifted by.

Jacob Black rode next to him followed by an array of armored knights, fierce and ready to do whatever damage they could.

General Cullen rode across the front with Cid. His presence did indeed spur them on, there was no doubt about it. And when he raised his sword high into the sky, some shouted the old battle cry now so tied to the black mask: " _Audeamus_!" Others followed suit until the word rang across the fields, crawling up against the tall walls and reaching the ears of the frightened guards and soldiers.

Lord Graham stared out across the field from atop the wall, having come momentarily to look at what they were facing.

He caught the man in black, he heard the chant of the soldiers and he paled at what was to come.

"My lord," one of his guards stammered. "The walls will hold, yes?"

Despite knowing there was little these men could do to bring down tons and tons of stone without sacrificing at least half—even more—of that army, Graham still had to swallow hard.

"The wall will hold," he said as he turned to him. But it sounded more as if he were reassuring himself. He watched the banners fly lazily in the wind and he squinted his eyes, trying to catch sight of the pretender who rode in that army. Alas, he did not see the royal coat of arms anywhere.

Graham took a backseat before the real battle commenced. He was no man of war, letting the commanders of the city care for the bulk of the battle.

The roar of agitated soldiers could be heard beyond the stone structure and the citizens all cowered in their houses. Many knew what happened during the taking of a city. They prayed Rosalie had not hired mercenaries to do her bidding as those were usually the most vicious of them all.

There was a strange moment of peace where the army paused before continuing. The horses snorted, the lancers gripped their weapons and men who knew they would die on that field said a lasting prayer, looking up at the sky, at the wonderful day that teased them so.

"Archers!" sounded Fawkes', Saxton's, Tyris', Rajac's and Carlisle' voices as they rode past the hundreds of arches, lined in the middle, ready to release their shower with bows and crossbows. The muskets would be used later, as to not waste bullets.

"Nock!" The sound of bowstrings tightening pierced through the frisky air.

"Draw!" Chapped lips were re-moistened as many passed their tongues over them in anticipation. On the wall, the same procedure was being carried out.

The leaders of Rosalie's army waited until the wind favored them. In one breath, they all shouted atop their lungs. " _Loose_!"

Hundreds, if not thousands of arrows whistled in the air, flying in elegant arches, met only by the counterattack from New London. Some arrows managed to collide mid-air.

Alas, the steel tips managed to find their target both ways and painful screams echoed across the field as men fell from the harsh impact.

While arrows had been loosened, trebuchets had been prepared to launch. The moment the guards atop New London wall saw the massive siege weapons—well capable of destroying the most solid foundations if they so willed it—shook in their boots.

The first projectiles were soon launched. The projectiles, in this case massive stones, flew like boulders through the air. Some missed their target, landing too soon in front of the wall. Others, passed the wall, falling just behind it. But, as fate would have it, there were some who managed not only to collide against the wall—shaking the entire structure with a massive bang, managing to make some soldiers almost purge their breakfasts in fright—some boulders collided just with the top of the wall, killing half a dozen instantly.

They kept their plan of attack for a moment until it was time to send in the men. Lord Tyris and Wilson, having to take the front, not being able to turn back now, urged their men, riding behind with horses and swords high in the air. Wilson was sobbing behind his helmet's visor, already soiled himself as he witnessed a shower of arrows rain down on him, hitting his horse in the flank and him in the shoulder. It sent him flying off the beast before having gotten halfway.

Lord Tyris rode with his officers and commanders and urged the men to push up the ladder. A thousand men stormed the wall of New London, screaming, frightened, sensing and tasting the metal of blood in the air, in their own mouths.

The rest of Rosalie's army watched as the New Londoners poured hot oil down the wall, boiling some men alive.

Many flinched at the screams.

"Second wave!" shouted Emmett, it was his turn to take them now. He said a silent prayer as he urged his horse on with those who had once been bandits in Raven's Grove with him and another fifteen hundred men.

The sound of steel against steel rang loudly while arrows and boulders soared across the sky in the chaos of battle.

Carlisle, dressed in his regalia as Cullen, took the front of his own flank, heading for the wall as well. He held no fear as he urged Cid on. " _Audeamus_!" he heard screamed to his left and right.

The masked man had not only his fifteen hundred men with him; more foot-soldiers had joined, running behind his sprinting horse, heading for certain death.

A group of mounted riders and some lancers, around fifty or so, held back as a knight with his visor down led them further down the wall where it met with some woods.

The riders and lancers did not know why this knight was to lead them further down, but so they did, in anticipation. If Edward Cullen had commanded them that they follow this knight with no sigil to his name, no colors of house or crest to know him by, they would still do it. Yet, this knight wore fluted armor and a full-coverage helmet with the visor leaving little view for even his eyes.

They heard the sound of an epic battle taking place, and they were riding down the vast wall to an area of shrubbery, thinking they would meet another army there.

As fate would have it, the group of fierce warriors managed to slip past unnoticed to the shrubbery. The unknown knight got off his horse and lead it in with drawn sword.

"Sir!" one of the other knights cried out.

"Shh!" the first turned around and hissed, pointing atop the wall. "They may be occupied by the battle, but they could still patrol this area," he urged.

Indeed, New London was stretched thin after Victoria had taken some guards with her to Wessport. They had manned the wall mostly by the great doors entering the city as well as the harbor, thinking that was where the bulk of the attack would come from. Alas, some sentries still patrolled parts of the wall, and lest the soldiers were not careful, they might be spotted.

But the knights wondered why this nameless one had taken them aside when their honor craved that they be in the thick of the fight.

"Sir, we go no further until you reveal who you are—"

"If Edward Cullen trusts me, so should you. If this works, we save countless lives from perishing in this bloodbath," the first knight urged.

The others looked at each other with skeptic faces until finally dismounting. Indeed, if The Lion of the North had placed his faith in this man, then so should they.

They worked hard to slip through the foliage and twisting vines. The distant sound of death was always present with them as gold and ruby leaves were forced away until, there, by a small stream, they saw an iron gate standing open.

They walked down a slippery slope in a lined formation, taking great care that their armor did not make too much noise. At one moment they all stopped as they saw a group of guards running atop the wall, no doubt there to retrieve more fodder for the weapons.

The unnamed knight reached the entrance and turned around. "I enter first. If I do not return, do not come for me, inform Cullen instead," he told them, the enigmatic voice echoing through the steel of his visor. They watched as he tied the reigns of his horse to a nearby branch and was swallowed by the darkness of the entrance. It was something that would have been hidden to them if they had not followed this man.

All they heard was the gentle running of the stream accompanied by shouts of terror and war coming from the north. A boulder must have hit the wall for it shook momentarily.

It felt like an eternity had passed when he returned, accompanied by another man leaning on a crutch. The man was missing his left leg.

"The coast is clear," he told them.

"Who are you?" one of the knights asked, now genuinely intrigued.

Another of the men stepped forth. "Are not you Alan Moore?" he asked the cripple.

Alan, pale and afraid at being so out in the open nodded tensely. "I am," he answered. The other men shifted where they stood.

"He is a traitor. Why would we go into a dark tunnel and follow a man who betrayed his country during the last war?" they all demanded.

The unnamed knight sighed and removed his visor and helmet, turning to faced them. An irritated look plastered on his features as he beheld the fifty knights. "Because Rosalie and William Fell command you to do it," he said darkly.

Their mouths dropped collectively as they were met with the striking features of the prince himself, his copper locks tumbling into his eyes. He was not the polished prince they had first laid eyes on in the Throne Room when Rosalie had first announced his presence. He was not the put-together rider that had ridden next to Edward Cullen on the way to Sorossa. This man looked like someone well versed and even comfortable on the battlefield.

"We follow Mr. Moore through this entrance and open the gates from the inside," he explained to them. "I asked Mr. Moore to leave Adelton for New London, to infiltrate here and gain their trust so that he may do this action for us. Do you not see that this will save countless of lives on both sides? We cannot afford to lose more men right now, not when we face the might of Victoria's full army, probably even a bigger army than we could ever have imagined," he finished.

They stood stiffly, still not being able to understand that the man before them was the _prince_. "Will you follow me?" Edward asked. He knew that they would not have hesitated had he worn the black mask.

But they regarded him not with suspicion, rather with wonderment. "O-of course, Your Highness," they mumbled.

"Good, then let us get going. There is no time to lose. I promised Cullen we'd have the gates opened by noon," he smirked as his head was once more hidden by his helmet and visor.

Alan looked at Edward, his eyes wide, his mouth not able to suppress the smile that had started forming. That William Fell was there, ready to get into the thick of battle, was enough to encourage most knights there—even earn their respect.

They all rushed through the tunnel, and as they got out, mounted their horses. Alan soon shut the gates after them. From the distance, another rider with his visor down joined them from within the city. They did not question his presence either but rode through the desolate streets, barely met by any resistance. Some sentinels were present, but they were easily taken down from atop their horses.

Meanwhile, on the battlefield, Saxton and Fawkes kept shouting commands to their soldiers. One siege tower had been taken down by several arrows with their tips laced in fire, thus managing to make it burn down.

Lord Wilson lay splayed on the field, hiding and crying behind his shield. Rajac came up to him and forced the crying man to stand, pressing a sword into his hands as he spoke through the blasting and shouts. But Wilson heard nothing, he only heard his own frantic heart, saw the lips of the scarred man move in slow motion.

Irias and Raleigh's forces kept at bay for a little longer, they would wait for Cullen's command. He was now at the front; Carlisle ready at any moment until they heard the beautiful sound shaking the entire wall.

The creaking of the gate.

The masked man stared wide-eyed together with most of Rosalie's army as the doors opened wide.

Lord Graham, positioned further within one of the city watchtowers, stared in terror at the group of armored men on the inside having slipped past them. He saw the trail of blood surrounding them and air left his lungs in one big heap as the gates opened wide and Edward Cullen, together with the rest of the army stormed inside.

Irias and Raleigh could scarcely believe what they were seeing as their forces entered as if by some miracle. And, indeed, it was a miracle. The gates had opened for them. It was, they thought, God's will that they enter the city and take it.

Fawkes gave out a shout of pure joy as he joined the throng. Saxton urged the men forward. On the inside, they could climb the walls and subdue the guards. But many had already surrendered. Some rushed for the harbor, wanting to evade completely the forces, maybe even get away from New London.

In the course of the next minutes followed some more kills until, eventually, Lord Graham saw himself forced to order the surrender of the city.

New London had fallen, and he stared in defeat as it was claimed by the army, pouring in through the open gates. Rosalie had won.

 _October 23_ _rd_ _– Wessport_

The siege had lasted days, and they were completely surrounded. Wessport would not take it much longer. The harbor had been cut off as well and the only ships they possessed now frantically did all they could to stop the English vessels from docking so that their soldiers might take the city.

Victoria had not slept well those days, had not eaten well those days. Her frantic eyes searched the vast void of her rooms as she thought what she might do.

Lord Durun already suspected what the mad queen might think of. Their only option now was to try to escape with a diversion and re-join Rosalie. Fighting off the English was more important than some foolish pride for the throne.

Alas, it was clear to all that Victoria was prouder than that. But even she realized the need to regroup.

She had wandered to the Blue Room—the throne room where her father had once sat and ruled the land. Her eyebrows bunched together as the faint autumn light filtered in through the tall windows.

Lord Alistair stood by her side, always showing his fealty, always loyal. Like a dog.

"Tis' the right course of action, Your Majesty," he mumbled, afraid to break the tense silence.

Victoria brushed a hand across the dark purple velvet which she wore. The corners of her mouth turned down and her red tresses were pulled back tightly. "To see Wessport taken…" she mumbled to herself. "Just like New London once was." Her eyes were blank with unshed tears and her heart screamed out for the city. It held many memories for her, both happy and painful. Victoria was lost, for she did not know what would become of her once they left the city her father had built.

Alistair had no words of comfort for her. He knew that the wrong words would displease her greatly, even cause for a lashing at him. Instead, he remained silent by her side until Lady Savoie interrupted the peace of the palace as she stormed in.

Victoria barely gave her a second thought as the agitated woman moved toward her. "Your Majesty," Monica Savoie curtsied quickly, completely ignoring Alistair.

Victoria kept ignoring her. "Have not my husband and I shown you great loyalty to you and your cause?" the agitated woman begged. Her features were twisted in agony, in pain. Victoria's harsh eyes finally found hers and she shivered at what she found there.

"Indeed, you have, Lady Savoie," the queen answered.

"Then _why_ are you sending him to meet the English in battle?" she asked as her voice broke. "He and the men who leave these gates will surely perish! You must know that—"

"Sometimes, Monica, we must make sacrifices in war," came the harsh reply. "The soldiers need reassurance, they need a strong leader on the battlefield. You should be honored that I chose your husband." Victoria stepped forward as her eyes squinted. "Unless we do this, we _will_ see the English claim Wessport, with or without us in it. Do you really wish to be within these walls as fifteen thousand men storm in?" she asked.

Monica paled as her lips quivered. She felt the tears well up in her eyes. "Please, Victoria," she fell to her knees. "Let it be someone else. Just not my Otto!" she begged as her voice broke.

The queen looked down at the begging woman and then up again. While her heart did cry out for her friend, she could not show weakness now. They needed a diversion to escape with whatever army she had left.

"His queen has commanded him, and he is a man of honor. Who knows, my dear, he may yet survive." She went down to pick Monica up. "And when I reclaim my sister's army and defeat these English invaders, your husband shall be renowned for the heroic deed that he will commit on this day," she smiled. But she found no smile within Monica. The young woman let her tears stream as she dragged her hands out of Victoria's grip; as if the mere touch of the queen had burned her skin. Monica stepped away in repulsion, regretting that she had ever helped her plot to grab the throne.

 _October 24_ _th_ _– New London_

Afternoon beckoned when they finally regrouped to officially enter the city. New London's gates glinted open tantalizingly and all the soldiers stared in disbelief. The great city was to be entered, claimed in the name of Rosalie.

As the golden hues of afternoon mixed with the colors of autumn, they all strolled through in tight formation.

The citizens of New London stepped outside of their barricaded doors. The taking was not a violent one when Lord Graham ordered their complete surrender.

Snorting horses, clinking armor and marching feet stomped through the elegant street of that ancient city. Some soldiers had never laid eyes on her beauty, on her ancient structures. The aqueduct ran along the middle, rising tall with massive arches, still carrying down the water from the eastern mountain range. Many citizens did not quite know what to make of this taking at first. For as they had spotted the nearing army breaking through the vast gates, they felt a sense of ease. Gone was the ruthless queen. Rosalie was known to be kind and gentle. They were sure there would be no more fear under her rule.

And… whispers from the south had been ringing through the now frigid nights. Men and women would huddle closer around their fireplaces as they shared the delicious gossip coming from Zafra, Coldwick, and Sorise. The whispers of a man who bore an uncanny likeness to the late king Philip. Whispers of a man who claimed to be the prince. And some eyes lit up, hearts beat harder, hands trembled. Who was this figure…this _prince_ whom the whole south seemed too interested in? Could it be that Philip himself had risen from the grave, ready to do battle one last time for his country? The romanticized idea of whom rode with Edward Cullen and the rest of the southern lords drew them in, provoking questions and curiosity.

And, thus, they had gathered on the streets, keen on seeing if that man was amongst their conquerors, riding next to the famous masked Lion of the North.

Snorting stallions pushed through with some lords having claimed the front, backed by a dozen knights in bright, shining armor. But in the middle of the prominent line of lords entering the city, rode two men as different as day and night. Edward Cullen was seated on his magnificent gray stallion, sporting his dark and somber attire. Alas, as the man next to him rode through the gathering throng, many felt their mouths drop in utter shock, their knees buckle at the sight of the man on his white stallion.

They knew well of that face, that famous and imposing face.

And as Edward Cullen and William Fell rode through the city like conquerors, the people stood stunned, dumbfounded. Edward had not wanted to ride in first. He did not wish to be seen as the conqueror of New London. He left that honor to Saxton, Fawkes, and Irias—despite the fact that the latter had barely touched the battlefield.

Edward took in the cypresses on his way up to Aldea, the impressive palace. He had never seen New London—the sapphire city—beyond the wall. The rooftops glistened and mixed with the golden hue of afternoon. Sapphire, gold, and emerald were the colors of the city.

Sometime by the main square, where the massive aqueduct cut through, the small part of the army that had followed with them, remained behind. All those thousands of men could not enter and be kept in the city under their watch. It was difficult to control so many of them. It would suffice that the knights which had helped him infiltrate the wall, and the lords, go up to officially have New London handed over to them.

Carlisle had to force his mouth to remain closed as he took in the impressive city as well. Lord Raleigh rode up next to them.

"Your Highness," he started, looking at the massive building up ahead, at the iron gates twisting like vines as the grand entrance neared. The gates stood open and they could already spot some men gathered there, no doubt to greet them. Edward nodded, showing that he was listening.

"The steward is Lord Graham, a most clever man. I advise you keep your wits about you with him," the older lord said.

Edward's lips settled into a thin line. "A politician, I take it?"

"Of the worst kind. He is as fickle as they come. Guard yourself against him, lest he charms himself into intrigue."

Edward snorted. There was no time for arrogance, but he had no time to spare either on this steward, this politician.

They arrived at the gates where their horses were taken. The servants who had been sent stared at the prince and the masked general a bit longer, but made no audible comment on the strange duo.

Edward and Carlisle, together with Lord Raleigh, Irias, Saxton, and Fawkes took the front. They were, after all, the main commanders.

When word had spread that William Fell had led the charge that had opened the gates, Irias, Black and Raleigh's lips had thinned visibly. Edward suspected they would not ask him to stay behind again.

But such a feat brought with its difficulties. He had no wish to intervene in matters of battle or war. He was there to make sure Rosalie's forces won no matter what; not there to campaign for himself or gather support. He needed to show that he was true to Rosalie and only to her and not present a chance for other ambitious lords to use him against his own sister.

They entered the impressive palace, walking past marble halls and bright stone courtyards with small fountains and trees bearing bright red leaves drifting slowly to the ground in their death dance.

They were led to the main room, Aldea's Throne Room. Great pillars lined the nave up to the central piece of the room where a grand mahogany chair painted black sat elevated on a platform. The light of afternoon spilled in from the glass dome, enveloping the top.

Edward could not help his mouth as it dropped. He had never seen its equal. Such exquisite perfection. The architecture of the interior was geometrical, many shapes and figures in the walls forming a strange, almost exotic, pattern in marble and stone contrasting in beige, white and black.

Lord Graham, steward of New London and proud of the fact, gulped hard as he watched the lords spill into the room. He did not seat the throne, but was rather next to it on a smaller chair.

He rose to greet them. "My lords!" he started until he caught sight of that oh-so-familiar face. "Your _Grace_ ," he bowed to the prince despite the fact that William Fell was not the crown prince. "I welcome you and surrender New London willingly," he said as he walked down the stairs of the platform.

Edward arched an eyebrow at the steward.

"How gracious of you, Graham," Irias smirked. "I hope the rest of the city feels so inclined."

Lord Graham looked at the southerner with an unreadable mask for a face. "You will find _all_ within these walls to welcome you openly," he stated. And, as if on cue, a figure clothed in red robes came from one obscure corner. His posture spoke of his acceptance of his lower position.

Edward fought hard not to wrinkle his nose at the weasel that was Cardinal Thorpe when he walked up to them. He was surprised Victoria had not taken the wretch with her. Alas, he could not act out his frustration at seeing the disgraceful man stand before him—William Fell had never met Cardinal Thorpe before.

Thorpe waltzed up to them. He caught Edward's eyes with his beady ones, his plump face turning into an unsettling smirk. "Indeed, God works in mysterious ways. Alas, he has truly shown me my path now that you stand here, _Your Grace_." He bowed deeply before the prince who could not completely hide his discomfort.

"The one you should be calling _Your Grace_ if anyone is his sister, Your Eminence," came a brooding voice to their left. Edward may not have been able to act out his distaste for Thorpe. But nothing stopped Carlisle from doing so. He had, after all, also been imprisoned by the wretched man back in Rome. He hated Thorpe just as much as Edward did.

"I am not crowned, nor do I plan to take that privilege away from Rosalie," Edward added with the most neutral tone he could muster.

"Forgive my impertinence!" Thorpe exclaimed, his eyes swiftly looking past Graham. " _I_ did not mean to presume—"

"No need for such a thing, cardinal. My sister called on me to help her. Not to claim the throne," Edward continued. His hands turned into fists as he thought of everything Thorpe had done. He did not doubt one second that this man still remained loyal only to himself. If the moment ever presented itself, he would turn his back on them in a second.

"You will find many interesting things here in New London. No doubt you know that Lord Quinn has sought refuge within these walls." Thorpe smirked as he arched an eyebrow.

There was a stifled murmur as two individuals slowly made their way from the end of the room when Edward called for them.

Alan Moore was pale, just as Quinn felt his stomach stir, rather unsettled at the sight of William Fell, placed right before the old Throne Room of the ancient Angloa. "Lord Quinn has been _most_ helpful to mine and my sister's cause," Edward smirked at Graham and Thorpe. "As has Mr. Moore."

Graham stared dumbfounded at both men as they tried to understand what was being revealed to them. The other nobles and aristocrats present in the Throne Room looked with keen eyes as they no doubt came to the quick realization as to how greatly Edward Cullen and William Fell had outwitted the leaders of New London.

Lord Quinn and Alan Moore had been responsible for helping them infiltrate the city and opening the gate. Thorpe was taken aback—he who always knew everything thanks to his many well-placed spies. Had Quinn been loyal to the other side ever since Adelton? Had he met Rosalie's forces on the battlefield planning his defeat during the taking of Cadherra? Had the whole ordeal in the Throne Room of Adelton Hall merely been a façade, a show? No, that could not be.

And what of Alan Moore? How on earth could the man who had once been mistreated by the masked general suddenly turn _loyal_ to him? Both Thorpe and Graham paled as they realized just how badly they had been played. The other lords from the south were surprised as well. For the prince nor the masked man had deemed it worthy to share their plot with them. While it amazed some, it angered others. Lord Irias furrowed his brow, determined to have a talk with the prince after they had claimed the city.

Lord Quinn stared at Thorpe defiantly. For he knew well the weasel that he was. The cardinal had no honor, and there were few Quinn tolerated who held so little honor in society.

Lord Irias stepped forth, his gangly frame now appearing before Graham, taking a stance next to Edward and Carlisle.

"Our army will remain outside these gates to keep the citizens calm. We do not wish unrest more than you do. This overtaking will be swift and as smooth as possible," he explained.

Lord Graham nodded slowly. "Of course," his eyes all the while never leaving Edward's. "Of course," he murmured again.

The day passed by slowly and they all started settling in, getting rooms where they could wash and get ready. The dead outside the gates were brought to mass graves and the number was not as high as it could have been, thanks mainly to Lord Quinn, Alan Moore, Edward Cullen, and William Fell having worked together to open the gates.

Edward stood shirtless by the opened window, washing his face as Carlisle changed clothes. Jacob rummaged through a bag until he found a fresh shirt, blood soaking his current one.

"But you cannot leave yet, Edward, and you know that very well," Jacob argued as he removed his shirt and went to the washing bowl to get rid of the worst muck. They were to delve down to the great hall for supper soon. He had not had a decent meal in days and was starving.

"We just took New London, I know. But the only way we can cement power here is if Rosalie comes and I need to bring her here. Lord Athar can remain in Adelton and manage Cadherra in our absence."

"Then let Jacob or I get her. You remain the leader in her stead," Carlisle said as he rubbed his face with a clean linen towel. His fair hair was wet and slicked back from his wash. His eyes were tired, and his jaw was in a clear need of a shave.

Edward went to put on a clean and pressed shirt, dragging it slowly over his head. "I had this unsettling feeling when we left Adelton." He turned to them. "We have yet to hear more from the north, what has become of Victoria and of Wessport. For all we know they could be marching on the capital as we speak. We may cement our position all we like here, but we need Rosalie to come and truly claim the throne, take her crown and march north not only to vanquish Victoria, but to fend off the English as well."

Carlisle itched the back of his neck, seeing the conundrum. "Speak with Fawkes and Irias of this—"

"Fawkes is not a diplomat, but a military man," Edward started when Carlisle put up a hand.

"Time for diplomacy is over. The English have a clear agenda and we must counter them. Your sister has a clear agenda and we must counter her."

"Aye," Jacob agreed. "But despite her faults, it would be better if we did not tire our army against hers and then try to fight the English with fewer numbers, don't you think?"

"Fawkes is well versed in battles. But not the outstretched strategies of an entire war. He does not look at the bigger picture. If we speak with him of this and decide to send him north, we might only lose the men we send him with. He is not a bad general, he is a great one," Edward continued. "But we need to combine diplomacy and strategy for this."

"Are you suggesting we ally with Victoria?" Carlisle wrinkled his nose.

Edward's lips pressed together. "We need her army to join our cause. Quinn joined our side, I am certain Launël and Savoie could be persuaded to as well."

"Alistair?" Jacob grimaced.

"Alistair is to be left for Saxton," Edward deadpanned. "I promised him as much." He turned away from the window. "I am not suggesting we accept Victoria. For after everything she has done, I do not know if I can anymore." There was a tone of defeat to Edward's voice that stretched about the elegant room. He went to the large divan and sat down, looking at the empty space before him. "She has already lost. The truths about her are starting to emerge and one by one her followers will leave her side for ours once they hear of her horrible acts." He looked up at them. "And I do not pity her for it. Victoria brought this upon herself."

His friends nodded slowly. Yet there was a hint of sorrow lacing his voice. Maybe it did bother Edward a little, only that he did not wish to admit it himself. He was not a man of malice, a man of vengeance or one to hold grudges. But knowing that his own blood had killed his mother would turn the kindest spirit into a raging beast.

They understood as much.

 _October 25_ _th_

Past the blushing touch of dawn, the sleepy streets of New London awoke yet again. Had one stumbled upon the city in such a peaceful state, one might never have believed that, just the day before, she had undergone an attack.

But as the new sun kissed the eastern horizon, her light spilling onto the bloodied fields of Sorossa, bathing them in a golden shine, colliding with sapphire rooftops and rising to the steady rhythm of the cathedral bells, a rider etched his way through the narrow alleys. His beast was at the breaking point. He had ridden it harshly, day and night, no rest. He knew his horse would fall dead at any moment from overexertion. But the message he was to relay had to be delivered as soon as possible.

The rider's horse collapsed before it could take him all the way to the palace. And after urging a citizen of the importance of his message, he managed to borrow a horse which took him the last of the way.

He showed the guards the messenger sigil and was let past as he rushed to find the steward. Lord Graham had not slept a wink that night and his eyebrows arched as the messenger was let into his quarters. He did not question why a messenger had been sent, what he had to say or whom he wished to see. Graham had lost and if the messenger wished for the lords to be regrouped in the throne room, he would obey. He knew his chances of survival were slim and pleasing the conquerors would bide him better than throwing the rude rider away.

Thus, it was in that splendid room, lined in white and black marble with vast pillars leading up to the empty throne roofed by a glass dome where Edward found himself. He fought hard not to gape at the wonder which was New London's palace, Aldea.

He did not know what the message was that required they be roused from their warm beds so early in the morning. But as they stood waiting for the messenger to relay his news, he felt the twist in his stomach.

The man looked about to fall down to the floor from exhaustion. The twenty powerful lords waited for him to speak, for the messenger knew that he would not be allowed to speak to the prince alone. He had been warned of as much. Lord Fawkes, Raleigh, and Irias would want to hear what he had to say as well.

"I bring grave news, my prince," he spoke with a stutter. The messenger was not shaking due to the sight of the uncanny face before him. Rather, he spoke with great fear of what he had seen, of the message he bore with him.

Edward tensed. "What news?"

The messenger paled further, a look of panic in his eyes as he spoke.

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 **A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well! :) I'm keen for Christmas this year :)) I'm going over to the states, wihoo :D**

 **I hope you who live in colder climates are taking care and keeping warm, brrr.**


	25. Chapter 25

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 25_

 _October 25_ _th_ _, 1520 – New London_

Edward had never run so fast in his life. His heart hurt his chest from the pressure as he sensed the bile rise in his mouth. He had no time to stop by his quarters. He managed to find the courtyard and ordered their fastest horse to be brought to him immediately.

Waiting for that horse—watching the footman rush to the stables—was like watching time slow down infinitely. He trembled, trying to ignore the words which the messenger had spoken. Edward had no time to think; only to act.

He ignored the running footsteps behind him, ignored the weight to them as he heard Carlisle and Jacob near.

"We just took New London…if you leave, we might lose our grip on the city. You cannot _be_ in Adelton. Not now!" Carlisle had run up to him and argued. Alas, Edward did not listen.

He turned around with a frantic expression on his face. "I _have_ to go, Carlisle," he said desperately. "You know I have to."

The animal was brought to him and neither Carlisle nor Jacob had the heart to say otherwise. They stared at him as he waited for their approval—because somewhere deep inside he needed them to accept what he was doing.

Carlisle bit back a sigh, knowing well the difficulty he would face alone in New London. "I will hold the city for you, then. Go to her, Edward," he mumbled giving his friend an embrace and the old Angloan handshake. Both took the other's forearm in the customary handshake, not dallying too long.

"Ride like the wind, my friend. Be with her," Jacob murmured in hushed whispers. "Because that is where you should be right now." He embraced the prince as well and both looked as Edward mounted the agitated horse, eager to rush out of the gates.

With a final word of goodbye, Edward urged the agitated animal into a frenzied gallop, not looking back for one second.

 _October 28_ _th_ _– Adelton Hall_

Isabella had not left the room in days. She kept glancing behind her with worry. Sofia would be in the room with her, even Mrs. Hammond or her mother. Athar and Glovendale would pace outside, growing ever more worried.

On the second day of Rosalie having taken to her bed, Isabella sent the messenger, despite the princess' protests. Edward needed to be in New London and not think of her. But Rosalie was taking for the worse, and she needed all the support she could get.

Mrs. Hammond had stepped outside, weary from the last few days. The princess' health had been in a steady decline. Come to think of it, the old woman realized the royal had never really recovered quite from her poisoning as Isabella had.

She shook her head as she dragged the mantle closer around her petite form, guarding herself against the chilly autumn air. Winter was now starting to whisper in their ears, announcing its inevitable arrival.

Horse hooves colliding with soft ground drummed in the distance and a sentinel announced a lone rider, urging the poor animal to ride faster and faster. Mrs. Hammond supposed it was the messenger sent to New London by the countess.

Alas, she was direly mistaken. None other than the prince of Angloa himself burst into the courtyard on the frenzied animal. He had taken two nights to rest; one right before Raven's Grove and one within the middle of the forest. There was no other horse to change to and he needed it to last him the entire ride to Adelton.

He pulled harshly on the reins to force the stallion to stop and it reared in protest as he jumped off. He looked completely disheveled. His cape and royal blue doublet were muddied. Splatters of mud soiled his handsome features and he had lost his hat along the harsh and long ride. He darted to Mrs. Hammond with no time to spare.

"My sister!" he demanded. She grew mute, not sure what to stammer to him. Had the prince really just ridden through the harsh Angloan inland after the message Lady Isabella had sent? She could scarcely believe it! The housekeeper of Adelton Hall resigned herself to point when her voice grew mute from the surprise.

William Fell aka Edward Cullen, rushed into the building, ignoring the curious onlookers. He could not be too late, the people in the courtyard did not dress in mourning black so Rosalie must have made it out from her sickness alright. His legs felt heavy as he rushed up the stone steps and to her room.

The prince pushed the door open to her drawing room, adjacent to her bedroom. There he found Lord Athar and Glovendale.

Athar stood up immediately.

"Where is she," the prince demanded.

"Your Highness," Athar started, he had never seen the prince so alarmed before. He almost lost his footing. What he had seen before, however, had been _that_ look. There had been a similar look in one man such as William before. When Philip had heard of his wife's state and rushed to her side at Adelton Hall decades ago, he had displayed a similar expression; complete fear and anxiety. "I-in there," he pointed breathlessly.

Edward stepped past him and Glovendale and entered the room with little ceremony.

Isabella turned around, startled while Sofia sat silently by the bed, her lips in a thin line as she put the cold compress against the fragile form resting in the bed.

"Edward," Isabella whispered as she saw him. And at the sight of the man she loved, she rushed up to him to embrace him long and hard. The young woman could not care less if New London had been taken or not. She only knew that she needed him there, by her side, for she was lost at what to do.

He held her, all the while looking over her shoulder at the sleeping form that was his sister. The woman in that bed was a mere fragment of what he had known. It was as if she had completely deteriorated ever since he had left.

Sofia looked at Isabella. "Niña, give us a moment," the gypsy begged in a low whisper. Isabella took Edward's face in her hands and kissed him. What Sofia was about to tell him, she had already heard.

Isabella stepped out, met by Athar and Glovendale, firmly shutting the door behind her.

The sound of the closing door felt like a heavy drum thudding in his ears. Sofia was stiff where she sat, the faint autumn light filtering in grayish and dead; lacking in luster.

"She is dying," Sofia whispered in the cold of morning. She kept her face from his, her dark tresses shielding the enigmatic eyes and visage from insight. He heard the tremor to her voice as he walked over to both women. Sofia did not flinch as he pushed the hair away from her face.

She looked distraught, afraid even. His lips were dry, chapped and his throat closed up as he went to touch the frail hand of his sister.

It was cold to the touch. She had started losing warmth in the extremities of her body. And, as Sofia had said, that only meant one thing. Her body was shutting down.

"Why?" his voice cracked as a pained expression passed over his features. Edward dropped down on his knees next to Rosalie as his lips quivered.

"When she and Isabella were poisoned…the poison your sister Victoria used was meant to kill slowly, over a long time—to make it look like a sickness had taken her as not to raise attention. But as we determined, the substance sprinkled over the pages was in greater amount: someone had done a careless job."

"But if it is the same poison, why is Rosalie this way now? If it is the same poison, why is Isabella not in the same state?" he demanded. Anger took hold, anger that blossomed up to the surface with such power that Sofia jumped where she sat at the ire taking hold within him.

"I spoke to Rosalie shortly after…she has most likely ingested it. And ingesting such a poison is fatal."

He turned to her with furrowed eyebrows, refusing to understand. "But she started getting better before. She was past the point of danger!" he growled. A tear managed to escape as he held the faint hand in his own; as if urging it to get warmer.

Sofia shook her head and allowed her own eyebrows to furrow. "I think Rosalie knew from the moment she was administered the supposed antidote given by Victoria."

"Yes!" Edward exclaimed. "An _antidote_! How on earth could she still be this way when she took—"

"Because the antidote was for someone who had _breathed in_ the poison." The black eyes held him for a long while, her mouth not willing to move as all they heard was the flapping of flags outside and the rattled breaths of the princess. "There is no antidote for this poison if it is ingested."

The words struck heavily. They sucked the air right out of Edward's lungs. "The potion she was administered was a temporary measure. I explained this to her when she started getting worse. She said she needed to remain well until New London was taken—" Sofia could not hide the small hint of shame as she watched his face twist in pain. "I made her concoctions to drink on a daily basis. They would slow down the spreading but would never stop the inevitable. There is no way to remove it from her system. And it is too far gone now. We increased her intake of my medicine which was hard on her overall health."

The tears had started flowing freely from his eyes now and Edward had no idea what he was supposed to do.

"Why did you not tell me?" His eyes were glazed over, a look of utter betrayal now present in them.

"Because I wanted to avoid this moment for as long as possible," she whispered back. "Because I do not want to see you hurt…like this."

"But I _am_ hurt!" He broke out into a sob and turned away from her. Seeing him thus broke Sofia's heart. "I was finally reunited with someone from my family and now God has decided to take her from me without even being able to say goodbye." The sobs grew stronger and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

"I can give her a potion to wake her up, for you to say farewell," she murmured. "I have the flask here." In her hand she held it tightly, not having parted from it for a second. Her heart was torn asunder from watching him so frail, so hurt at the prospect of losing his sister. "Isabella never knew until a few days ago," Sofia added for she did not wish to separate the young couple.

"She was the one who sent for me…" he whispered placing his face in his hand as a look of defeat washed over his body. He understood everything now: why Rosalie had been so insistent that William Fell step forth. He did not fault her for lying to him; but did she truly understand the position she had just placed him in?

"I need to speak with her," he spoke, his voice muffled by his hands.

Without a word, the gypsy prepared to administer the potion. It would be enough to awaken the princess, to make her lucid, give them time until she passed.

* * *

Sofia left him at one point as the sound of an empty castle greeted him. The smell of a closed-in room irritated his nostrils just enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his seat. Edward's eyes shifted from the window to his sister. He took in the dulled tapestry, the worn boards lining the floor. The impeccable furniture polished to perfection. He took in the dark colors; the dark world his sister had decided to inhabit.

And he took her in as well. What was left of her.

Rosalie came too around noon, her eyes fluttering open, staring at the dark ceiling of her rooms. The disoriented princess looked around until she was met with the flustered face of her brother. She could clearly see it, faint trails of dried tears, the reddened eyes wiped clean. He did not wish to show any weakness before her. Alas, she wished for him to bear himself, to let it all out. And Rosalie grew ashamed under his emerald gaze, under the heavy eyes looking at her, asking her with no words: _why_?

"Tis' ironic," her voice croaked, the chords in her throat stiff from lack of use, her throat parched, dry. He went over to her, the click of his shoes colliding with the wooden floor, strangely comforting to her. His bare hand rested under her neck as he guided her head up and pressed a cold cup of water to her lips.

"What is?" he asked. He did not sound as overwrought as he looked, as tired as he appeared. His voice was soft and gentle, calming—inviting even.

"That it should be here." She could not say the dooming word. "The place where I was born." She took another sip before resting against the pillows once more, fully exhausted.

Another moment of silence passed between them and Rosalie felt the guilt rise further and further. She finally turned to her brother, who was leaning forward, the dark copper locks tumbling into his eyes in a boyish way.

"Sofia told me everything," he finally mumbled, breaking the brittle silence.

"I am sorry," came the soft reply. She knew—had known for a long time what she had forced her brother to do. For him being in his current position had been against his will, yet he had come upon her request, thinking he could return back to obscurity after. "I am sorry for doing this to you," she croaked, and her voice hitched in her throat.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He rose his gaze to meet hers and Rosalie's eyebrows furrowed further. "Why didn't you reveal what you were going through?" His velvet voice gave way to the familiar growl so prominent in Edward Cullen.

"I did not wish for you to see me so…I did not wish for you to suffer with me."

"We were barely reunited as brother and sister." He looked down as he grimaced in pain, almost wishing to hide from her. "This isn't fair!" He almost sounded like a small boy complaining.

Rosalie shook her head. "It certainly isn't, Edward…William. But would you have stepped forth as William if I'd ever told you?" she questioned.

He looked at her for a long moment and both knew the answer to her question. "No."

"Will you remain as William when I am gone?"

Gone. Such a strange word for her to hear—for him to hear. He had thought about it ever since rushing from New London. When Rosalie was gone there would be a vacuum and, of course, he was expected to take her place. Alas, if he took her place as ruler, as king, would he ever be able to be with Isabella again? Could he return to being Edward Cullen?

"I do not know what William Fell holds for me. Not a future I wish."

"I know you do not wish the crown because of Isabella, because of the responsibility." Her head tilted to the side, staring at the ajar window, smiling at the chill pushing from the outside. She was cold but remained quiet about it.

"Lord Athar and Glovendale would stand by your side," she mumbled. Her eyes drifted over to him and all she saw was her lost little brother.

"I do not want to lose you, Rosalie," he whispered. "The crown matters not, what matters is that I had you: family, true family."

She extended her hands as he came to her side, claiming her frozen limbs in his warm embrace. "You had a family before you met me," she comforted. "You have a mother in Sofia, you have a wife in Isabella, you have your brothers in Carlisle and Jacob and…in some strange way, you have a father in Athar: for he wants the best for you. You may be angry with him because he held you and Leonore back in Angloa. But he wanted to protect you because he loved and admired our father very much. And I know he will do the same with you, William." Her voice was growing fainter as she spoke.

"The choice is yours. But I know that you will make Angloa something I could never make, something Victoria could never make. You were not born a king, you have been transformed into one, and before my very eyes. I have never had children to call my own, never any family except a father I could be proud of, William. But I am proud of you like a mother is proud of her son, like a sister is proud of her brother." Her voice broke out into a sob as she held him in her arms. "Had I never ended up like this I would never have put you in this position. I would have taken the crown and ruled as queen. But I cannot anymore."

He rested his head against her chest and held her as his lips trembled. He knew the choice that had to be made. Freedom and love or duty and loyalty to Angloa.

She brought his face up to look at between her hands. "Will you tell Victoria that I do not blame her?" Rosalie sobbed as her breath grew slower and slower, her hands colder and colder on his face. He trembled in anger at the mention of that monster. "Will you?" she begged. He nodded, not trusting in his own voice. She let a faint smile touch her lips.

"Will you tell Emmett I loved him?" she whispered. "Tell him to forgive me?"

His heart broke at those words and he could only nod. "I will find whoever poisoned you now, and I will kill them—"

"No vendettas, no revenge, Edward," she sighed. "I already know who did it."

He froze.

"I have already spoken with that individual and they are not to be harmed. That is my final wish," she mumbled. "Will you promise me?" Her golden eyes held his for a long time as he finally nodded.

"Will you lay by my side? I am cold," she slurred. Moving less and less as her heartbeat slowed down. He went to her side and she rested in the warm embrace of her brother as her breaths grew fainter and fainter.

He held her and listened to her heartbeat, the source of her life growing slower and slower. "I…love you…brother," she mumbled against his chest. He let the tears flow freely down his cheeks as he hugged her tighter, resting his face in her golden tresses as her final breath left her.

He held the lifeless body of his sister, of his only accepting relative and had no idea what to do with himself. The sobs grew stronger and stronger until there was a knock on the door. He did not bother answering it. There was still some life left to her body and if he imagined it, she only looked to be sleeping, her eyes closed, her face peaceful.

Isabella stepped into the room, closing the door behind her, her face in shock at the scene before her.

Edward did not know what to do but cried into the corpse of Rosalie. Isabella's hand went to the wall for support as she herself fought hard against showing too much emotion. She trembled walking up to brother and sister and placed a soft hand on him. She kneeled by his side and the painful look on his face broke her heart in two.

Her hand came to brush the hair away from his face, to dry the tears streaming down his eyes. "Look at how peaceful she looks," she managed to say. And they both glanced at the still face of Rosalie. Her pale features were soft, calm. Isabella brushed away a few of her own tears at the strange sight. "We have both seen so much death recently. But has it ever been this peaceful, Edward?" she asked him.

"No," he answered in a thick voice. He held her tightly for a while longer until Isabella spoke once more.

"I am here," her soft voice whispered. "I will always be here." The words of reassurance weighed more than she could ever imagine. The support they offered him, like a crutch to a cripple, was like a lifeline for him. He set his sister's head down on the pillow and stepped out of the bed, stumbling when his wife caught him. He held her hard and burrowed his soaked face in the nook of her neck, feeling her soft skin brush against his, reveling in the warmth of her body, in the sound of her beating heart.

"I am here." She held him tightly and stroked his hair as he hugged her back and bared his emotions before her without fear of being judged for such a display of weakness. Isabella would never think him weak.

Someone else walked into the room. The scent of spices and wood invaded his nostrils as Sofia neared him. Her hands came to brush his hair out of his face as he straightened up. Both women that he loved so dearly comforted him in their own way. He did not blame Sofia for not telling him; there was no strength left in him.

They sat there the three of them with the corpse. He looked at the ajar window which Rosalie had longingly stared out just a few moments prior. Had she seen something there which he hadn't?

Maybe.

He dried his tears. "Bring Athar and Glovendale," he mumbled as he sat on a chair next to the bed. He was at a loss, not knowing how to proceed.

"Are you sure?" Isabella asked. "Do you need more time? They will give you all the time you need—"

"I need to know what to do next," he answered. "I need to speak with Athar—I…I need guidance." He was lost, he did not know what to do. He knew what he wanted, but he did not know if he should do it.

She nodded. Sofia stepped over to the body and produced a thin linen sheet which she draped over Rosalie's body.

Both women stepped out and were soon followed by Athar and Glovendale. They took a few moments to process the scene before them. The prince sat; the very picture of defeat on his chair as he looked at the draped form of his dead sister. Athar walked over to Rosalie wordlessly, taking her cold hand in his own and kissing it. Glovendale opened the window fully, as to let her spirit find its way to heaven.

The three men sat stunned for a long time.

"She needs a proper funeral," Glovendale whispered after a while. "The whole kingdom needs to know of this. I shall send a messenger and make the preparations." He got up, almost wanting to get away from there.

"We need to let the lords in New London know," Athar answered.

"Edward Cullen must come," Edward said.

Athar stopped in his tracks. "We need someone we trust in New London, Your Highness," Athar paused. "…Your Royal Highness," he corrected.

Edward's jaw gritted at the sudden change in title. "Your Highness," he demanded. His eyes went up to meet the old man's, a harsh anger lining them. "Just Your Highness."

Athar kneeled by him and looked long and hard to find the appropriate words. "We heard you took New London. Saxton rode in just after you, he is standing outside as well. We will get those we deem fitting for the…for the funeral. We will inform the kingdom of Rosalie's death." Athar stopped and glanced at the body. His face revealed he was not yet ready to speak of such things. The white, pale mask and watering eyes told a different story. But Athar needed to take charge, mourning would have to wait.

"It is still early and horrible to even mention. But you have a choice to make. If you wish to continue this conflict, you cannot do so as a mere prince anymore. We need a leader to fight for or Victoria will rally the more weak-minded lords, or they will simply stand back and watch us claw at each other's throats only to be overturned by the English. We all need an answer from you. And you already know what it has to be."

Edward watched as he stood up, the old and frail man walking to the door to let Saxton enter. Saxton looked even worse than Edward. He heard his sobs, his heartwrenching wails, and pains as he held her body, as he cried into her throat. Just like Edward had done with Isabella. Alas, Saxton's love was dead.

Edward stared as the other man broke down even more before him. "It should never have been her!" Saxton whispered against the cold body.

He wondered if telling him would make the whole ordeal worse for him. But he decided that if the roles had been reversed, he would have wanted to hear his love's final words for him as well.

"She had a message for you," he managed to say in a thick voice. Saxton's red face looked up, the very picture of tragedy as he grabbed her stiff form. Edward hesitated as the bitter winds managed to blow into the room. "She loved you. With her final breaths she said as much, Saxton."

Emmett's face twisted further in pain as he nodded. "I love her as well," he managed to say, and something seemed to snap in him. His eyes darkened. "And Victoria will pay for this—I will make her suffer a thousand days until she begs me for—"

"That is not what Rosalie wanted, for either of us. No revenge, no anger, Emmett," Edward whispered.

"Do not tell me you do not wish to see that _whore_ burn, suffer, _die_!" Saxton growled.

The prince rose to his feet and sent an icy glare across the room. "I just lost the only blood-related family I ever cared for. You have no idea what I would wish to do to the guilty. But I will not soil her last wishes. And if you loved her, if you cared for her, neither will you," he growled wish such intensity that it made Saxton flinch and furrow his brow. Why was that stance, that growl, so familiar to him? Alas, his clouded mind could not figure it out.

The day passed, and Edward remained seated on that chair, looking at the body with Saxton holding her hand. Glovendale and Athar had written letters to be distributed across the land, informing of Rosalie's passing. From New London, upon Edward's insistence, Carlisle would return as Cullen. Lord Irias and Raleigh would come while Fawkes remained back—for they trusted in him to keep the peace of the grand city. Cardinal Thorpe was clearly instructed to remain behind as he was by no means welcome.

Toward the afternoon, a few footmen came with a stretcher. They were to move Rosalie's body to the lower rooms of the castle where it was colder, so that her body would keep longer. Saxton went with them, not willing to be separated from his love.

Edward remained seated in that room, not wishing to meet the rest of the world yet. He had less time than he would've liked to decide and he was at a loss.

Isabella entered at one point again, alone this time. She locked the door so that they might not be disturbed.

" _When the hour is upon you, when you stand face to face with the consequences of my decisions, you will hate me. And I will not blame you_ ," Isabella mumbled out into the silence. Her chocolate eyes met his forest greens as tears kept falling. She would not pretend before Edward.

"My sister's words." It was not a question, rather a statement. He kept her gaze for a while longer, the afternoon light spilling like droplets of gold inside the room. Day faded away beautifully. "Do you…hate her?"

Despite her pain, her affliction at the loss of a dear friend, of a companion—of her sister in law. Isabella smiled as she dried her eyes. "No," she shook her head. He lowered his eyes at her kindness, at the grandeur of her heart. Isabella looked out the ajar window, watching the purple twilight settle and mingle with the final golden rays, jumping off the last few leaves still attached to the thick crowns of the trees outside. Her brown orbs were lit up by the soft light, her still form bathed in twilight. The bright velvet dress in lavender soaked up the light in the room as well. Her whole form shone strangely before him.

"She did what she had to…" Isabella trailed off. "And now you have a choice to make."

He shook his head. "Tell me right now and William Fell goes away forever," he said stiffly. "I go back as I was and try to win this thing with Athar and Fawkes as Edward Cullen—"

She watched him silently with furrowed eyebrows. "Tell me, honestly. If William Fell leaves, how many lords will remain by our side and not try to take power for themselves? Tell me honestly how Victoria will not twist this whole event in her favor and muddy William's name in some way or another." Her teeth gritted. "If you—William—disappear, I would not be surprised if your sister did not place the blame of Rosalie's death on you."

"But there is a chance that it could all work out. And…we could be together."

"Could we?"

He rose to stand, pacing about the room. Isabella stood up and walked to him. "I want to be with you, I never wish to be parted. I want to call you my husband, have you kiss me, hold me, caress me as you wish. But…" she trailed off, trying to find the right words. "I know the decision you are faced with." Her lower lip trembled slightly. "And whatever you decide to do, I will support you fully."

With those words, she had to leave, for she could not face him a second longer. Isabella wanted nothing more than have him by her side. But she would not be selfish, and she would not allow him to be selfish either. Angloa needed William Fell more than she needed Edward Cullen.

 _October 29_ _th_ _—Maera, North of Coldwick_

Victoria stared at the ocean for a long while. She did not care that she had lost Wessport, that Savoie had died. She did not care that she was losing in general.

News of her sister had reached her, and the broken queen had fallen to her knees as she had uttered a scream into the cold air. The fortress they had claimed by the eastern coast close to Coldwick would serve as her base of operations until she found her footing; until she determined her next plan of action.

But she could not think straight now. Every emotion was heightened by a hundred and Victoria could not breathe properly, sleep properly, even eat properly.

Alistair had been the only one allowed to speak with her. The others were kept at bay, by her request. Because she did not wish to show them her weak state of mind.

Even though she knew Rosalie had perished by her poison, there was only one person she blamed for this: Isabella Swan. Now more than ever, she would see that girl dead with every ounce of her body, see her ripped apart time and again until she was a heaping mess of flesh and bones. The bloodthirsty side of the queen had started acting out more and more.

Alistair had come to her chambers, seeing the older woman in nothing but her shift. Her mind had started failing her, and they could not show the other lords.

"Your Majesty," he begged as he went up to her to pick her from the floor where she sat. Her hair was disheveled, and streaks of dried tears lined her cheeks. He guided her to the bed. "Pull yourself together," he continued. Victoria shook her head and looked at the sea, at the rolling waves in the distance.

"Alistair," she turned to him, the two crazed eyes softening slightly. "I-I need to go to Adelton," she shook. "I need to be there for the funeral," she pleaded.

"You cannot!" Alistair feared to say the next few words. "Your _brother_ will be there!"

Her eyes darkened. "That man is _not_ my brother, he is an impostor. Leonore's child died!" she growled. Alistair already knew the details, already knew what the queen had done. And he did not express any emotion as to what he truly thought about her actions all those years ago.

"If we ride there, we only cause more conflict—"

"We ride there for my sister's funeral under a flag of truce," Victoria snapped, almost desperate. "I-I need to see her." She broke, her face twisting in pain, her arms hugging her thinning body. "I need to say goodbye."

Alistair furrowed his brow. He would not be able to change her mind. Alas, what truly worried him was the weak state of mind in which the queen found herself. Maybe seeing her sister gone and the impostor who had taken her place would allow Victoria to focus on the war once more.

"We send them a letter and make preparations," he murmured into her ear, the words causing a smile to spread on her face. Victoria was clearly not thinking right, but she needed her sister, she needed to see Rosalie.

 _October 30_ _th_ _– Adelton Hall_

"How long has he been in there?" Athar was not used to hearing the rough voice escape past his lips. Many of them held their breaths, waiting in anticipation at the man to step out.

Glovendale had gotten more wrinkles the past few weeks than he had ever had working as an ambassador for years in Rome. "Too long," the ambassador mumbled back.

The rest of the castle had caught him stalking the gardens at a resolute pace, preferring solitude before companionship. He was like his father in so many ways, yet not at all. Athar saw the clear distinction for every passing day. This man, William Fell, was not Philip—and he never would be. For William did not strive to be as his father had been.

Past the blockaded door he sat poised on the bed, eyes glued to the rising sun, feeling the chill bite at him through the opened window. So many thoughts jumped through his mind that they meddled into a great big mess. Edward's eyes were wide awake, yet his mind felt asleep.

An image of his sister conjured up in his mind, of her small form, of her smiles and determinedness. Isabella was not far behind, followed by Sofia. And, lastly, what he remembered of his mother.

All the women who had influenced him now bared themselves before him and Edward tore his gaze away from the striking rays—from the breathtaking view from the enormous building poised at the edge of the world. His world.

He only had a choice to be made, a choice he did not wish to make. Time, pressure, and lack of sleep did not give him another option. With great reluctance, and short of breath, he got up and turned to face the door he had wished to ignore the whole night.

Aye, a whole day and two nights he had sat, staring at the void darkness, himself slipping on the edge of his own sanity. He knew what he had to do, yet his whole body screamed against such a decision.

But, Edward Cullen, William Fell, the blurry line between the two slowly separating—himself defining who he truly was—moved to the wooden structure, so dark, so foreboding. He knew what awaited once he turned that handle.

And, still, his hand turned it and he stepped out to meet the world as he was meant to do.

Athar glanced at the man long and hard, at the reddened eyes, at the shadow of his stubble. The slumped shoulders gave way to his true feelings. Edward leaned against the opened door for a while, letting the silence speak for him, his glazed orbs enjoying the tranquility he'd had thus far in his life. With one final breath, he spoke the words he'd wished to ignore for so long.

Green orbs slowly rose to meet gray ones and Athar held his breath awaiting the dooming words. For he was certain William Fell would decline his rightful place on the throne—ignore returning to New London.

His lips felt numb when he spoke, almost as if it hadn't truly been him saying the following words. "We bury her first," he whispered. "When they are all arrived."

"Do we await your sister?" Glovendale asked, disgusted he even had to formulate such a question. When they had gotten the message from Victoria just a few hours prior and slipped it beneath the door for William to read, he hoped the prince would have thrown it into the fire.

His eyes darkened, but he did not let his full hatred of Victoria seep through. "Let her come if she wishes, but we do not hold up Rosalie's funeral for her."

"Your Highness—" Glovendale began, already against the idea.

"I want her to see her," Edward cut him off. "I want her to see her sister's lifeless body." He controlled himself and pulled back. "The English are breathing down our necks, my lords. Despite what Victoria is, we need to make sure she does not join them—do you understand? Showing this mercy might make her…see reason. And seeing what has become of her sister might make her put down her weapons." He was disgusted at even having to allow such a thing. But he could not think selfishly and pridefully at the moment. Edward knew it was farfetched, but he could at least gain something on allowing Victoria to see Rosalie a final time. Not only would it rattle her, seeing Rosalie dead might make Victoria distance herself from war. Forbidding her to see her would only be worse.

"And after?" Athar dared to ask.

Edward gripped the folded leather gloves in his hands, feeling the chill of Rosalie's chambers enter the drawing room. It was almost as if nature sighed into his back. He sensed the bile rise in his throat at his following words and grimaced as he spoke them. "We head for New London," he murmured with a dead look to his eyes.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews on the previous chapter! I hope you enjoyed this one as well :D**

 **Cheers!**


	26. Chapter 26

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 26_

 _November 3_ _rd_ _, 1520 – Adelton Hall_

Dawn pressed as the procession moved from the castle to the small chapel adjacent. All dressed in their blackest clothes, the women veiled, the men caped.

A train of mourners—come from all corners of Cadherra—walked in the procession in silence. They were not many, for few where those who would now venture anywhere in these difficult times. Alas, they were still a sizeable escort of people.

At the front—one of those carrying the coffin—had his face plastered into a stiff mask. Containing nestled within the mahogany and oak rested a princess of their kingdom. Carrying her on the other side was a man with a black mask.

Edward Cullen and William Fell together with Emmett Saxton, Thomas Athar and Theodor Glovendale supported the weight of the coffin. They had all insisted—insisted on supporting Rosalie on her final journey in life.

Bells tolled heavy in the morning as they entered the murky interior of the chapel, lit up by thousands of wax candles, flickering in the breeze they carried with them. Isabella was close behind the coffin. She had been the queen's confidant and was entitled the prominent position at the front. Alan Moore, Renée Swan, Alice, and Sofia all walked with her. Even Mrs. Hammond was up at the front. The women wore black veils to shield their faces from insight. But many were dried of their tears as they had been shedding them for the past week.

A faint chant of the choir accompanied them on their way in as the incense flowed heavily through the interior of the chapel. They moved through the nave up to the altar where they would place Rosalie's coffin and open it, letting them all see her face one final time.

Friar Nicholas awaited at the altar. For, indeed, the priest who had previously held the chapel had long since faded and no one had taken his place. Nicholas stood in his vestments, a white priest's robe with a stole; a preaching scarf, thrown over his shoulders. He witnessed the procession enter, heard the bells ring, and watched the face of William Fell as he entered, the coffin bearing down on him.

The choir kept singing their slow tune in Latin as the coffin was placed on its supporters with white flowers and red leaves dressing the front. Edward and Carlisle opened up the coffin and he was struck by the strange features of his sister. Rosalie almost looked like a doll—too perfect—made out of wax.

He turned to go and sit at the front, a feeling of fatigue washing over him, a feeling of helplessness as he witnessed Isabella's veiled form in one of the benches.

The funeral began, each moment difficult. Nicholas preached up at the altar. Edward stared emptily ahead, not being able to take his eyes off his sister. Athar walked up at one point to say a few words. As did Glovendale.

Then, the ones present at Rosalie's funeral got up, approaching her coffin and leaving parting flowers, saying a final goodbye. Isabella tried not to look at Edward, for it would be hard to remove her eyes from him once she did so.

The choir chanted a final chant as they all joined in the psalm. The funeral was over, and Rosalie would soon be brought down to the same resting place as her mother, down in the crypt of Adelton Hall.

The chapel started emptying little by little until only a handful of people remained: those who had known Rosalie best.

Isabella sat on her bench, next to her mother, feeling the cold draft of the room. "Will you go with Edward to New London?" her mother asked after a while.

"I go wherever he goes," she responded, tense, stoic.

Renée took her hand in hers. "Do you want to go to New London?" Renée had removed her veil, as had Isabella. For some reason, the funeral had tired her out too much.

"I want to be by Edward," she whispered. "I want to stand by his side and support him." Alas, Renée could never truly know the whole meaning of those words.

"They say William Fell will claim the throne now," Renée murmured after a tense moment. And Isabella saw something in the eyes of her mother which she had not seen for a long time: hope. There was a fire now kindled. And despite the fact that they had just perceived such a tragic moment—that of Rosalie's passing—Renée looked to the future.

"My grandmother always spoke of Philip Fell, of the good he did for Angloa, of the peace he brought upon this land."

"Victoria Fell is his daughter too, as was Rosalie."

Renée looked to William. "There is something about his son which I cannot put my finger on. But I trust him, in his truth, in his way. There is something in his eyes. They are not…fading like Rosalie's were, or dead like Victoria's are. They have something in them that makes me wish for something better. Perhaps a vision…" she trailed off. "Or maybe it is my foolish heart which wishes it were so," she said, almost ashamed.

"I think there is truth in what you say," Isabella smiled. She did not think she would be able to smile on the same day of Rosalie's funeral.

"William Fell and Edward Cullen could make something again out of Angloa," Renée whispered.

"Or at least clean the mess up left behind Victoria's and Magnus' rampage," her daughter answered. She had started coming to a slow realization of what her husband needed to do, part of it tore her in half, another part was mesmerized.

A strange stillness befell the chapel, echoes of whispering voices faded away. Incense and wax were a prominent backdrop mixed with wet stone as the heavens opened up. The rain that had started falling stirred the earth and cleansed the land. Perhaps the heavens were crying for Rosalie's loss: a final goodbye to the princess with a heart of gold.

The coffin was brought down to the crypt and only a few were present as they gathered while night started falling slowly, tediously, the rainwater splattering loudly on the stone, yet not managing to penetrate into the stiff and stale space in which they found themselves.

The crypt was a long room with a vaulted roof in tile, torches lining each side where graves had been etched into the walls. The graves lay atop each other forming three layers. There were many who had been buried there from both her family, but also the Fell line. Even one of the original three kings had found his final resting place there.

Rosalie's tomb was lavish, an effigy had been ordered but not yet ready. Alas, her tombstone—the one which would cover her coffin as it was being placed into the wall—stood ready, leaning against the wall. Polished granite saw delicate letters with gold leaf gilded into them:

 _Here lies Rosalie Fell. Loved princess of Angloa, protector of the weak and the poor._

 _May she find peace_

It was simple. Ordered there by Athar.

Isabella, Carlisle, Edward, Athar, Saxton, Glovendale, Irias and Lord Billy Black all gathered with Nicholas as four men came down with the coffin, followed by a footman who looked rather nervous.

He rushed up to Lord Athar in hurried steps and handed him a note. In the yellowish light of wax candles, Athar read it at least three times before crumpling it in his hands.

"Victoria is demanding entrance under a flag of truce," he spat.

The mere mention of her name made many faces sour, but not quite as much as Saxton's and Edward's.

"Take her captive and throw her in the dungeons," Saxton growled as he stepped forth.

Lord Athar looked to Edward. "Your Royal Highness," he started. "She _is_ your sister."

Something flashed in his eyes as he stared at the coffin resting on the cold and dusty floor.

"Let her in," he spoke after a moment's pause with such lack of emotion that it made some of them shiver. He rose his eyes and they almost appeared black in the dull light.

He headed toward the entrance. "Let her come, let her see what she has caused." He stopped by the stairs leading up and out of the crypt and turned to them. "Maybe there is some part left in her feeling remorse." His hands turned into knuckles. "Maybe she truly comes here to mourn the sister she had killed."

"You will not stay?" Irias questioned.

The prince turned around. "I have little energy left for that woman, my lord," his hollow words echoed.

They all stood in silence and weighed the severity of his words. His form was only but a shadow as he walked up the stairs. Carlisle did not pause for a moment and stepped away, feeling out of place in the mask, in such company. And he had no wish to be there as Cullen when Victoria came.

Isabella stared after the dark form—only the whisper of a man, a shadow in the night—step outside as well.

"My lady, I suggest you leave as well. It will not be pretty to see Victoria here. We do not know what she is capable of—"

"I will not leave," Isabella said with her head held high. She knitted her eyebrows together stubbornly. "This is _my_ castle, _my_ lands. She treads upon my property and tried to have _me_ killed as well. I will watch as she sees the fruit of her failed labor. And I will not cower. I do not fear her, nor should you," she growled at them.

Athar's face took on a look of confusion. Irias shook his head. "We will not disrespect your wishes, my lady. If you wish to stay, as the lady of this castle, as Countess of Cadherra, then that is your right. But do not provoke her…" he started.

"We do not fear Victoria Fell," someone mumbled in the dark.

"You all avoid speaking of her if you can. You look at the ground whenever we mention her name. You fear what she has turned into, my lords—that such a bright and clever woman should become so evil." Isabella motioned to Rosalie's grave. "I will stand here, next to my friend's grave and show Victoria that she killed the wrong woman," she said, her voice growing stronger and louder. "And I will feel no remorse for it."

Glovendale's mouth dropped at her words. Black shifted where he stood. Saxton, despite it all, could not help but smirk and nod slowly while staring at the grave of his loved one. "And I will rejoice in seeing it as well." He looked up.

Steps sounded in the stairs, drumming as someone descended them in a careless manner. They had not yet seen who it was walking down them, but all knew without seeing. Edward Cullen appeared in the arched doorway and Isabella knew that it was truly him hiding behind that mask. He must have switched with Carlisle momentarily, and the fact confused her. Had he not said he did not wish to see his sister?

"Why did His Royal Highness just leave?" Glovendale asked.

The masked man loomed over them with the presence of his aura. "I think we both know the answer to that question," he muttered in the low and growling voice. His eyes locked with Isabella's as he walked up to her.

Irias watched the couple, for all knew the fact that the two were closer than ever before now. He ignored the others as they turned to give them some solace. Isabella reveled in the faint moment they had in one another's presence. She could not truly be with him when he was William. But now she took the chance and leaned into him, breathing in his scent; leather, pine, and sandalwood.

She buried her face in the nook of his neck and closed her eyes as he embraced her. Saxton watched the scene of the two lovers and something painful tore at his heart, making him shiver.

Black and Irias stood for a moment until they decided to leave. Even Glovendale decided to follow the prince. Mayhap they had thought him smart for deciding not to be in that woman's presence.

Left in the crypts were Edward, Isabella, Athar, Saxton and Rosalie's body. They spoke little, waiting for the self-proclaimed queen to come down and wreck whatever havoc she had intended.

A moment's silence passed until they heard steps once more penetrate down the castle. Her figure appeared like death itself, robed in dark shrouded fabrics, her face covered by a veil, obscuring her features from insight. Glovendale had been tasked to escort her. Victoria was so certain of their honor that she had no doubts that they would not move a finger to silence her. She had ridden in the secrecy of darkness, arrogant enough to not even bring a large escort or her army with her.

She marched up slowly to the coffin, standing elevated, ready to be pushed into the wall. She stopped before Edward and Isabella. The young woman could feel the cold eyes regard her and she could not believe she stood so close to her. Victoria's deeds, her way of behaving, had made her even more infamous amongst them.

"Open it," she uttered in a guttural sound. Her voice revealed nothing about her emotions.

Edward felt her harsh eyes glued to him. Indeed, the demand was truly directed at him.

"I am not your servant to command," he growled back. "You may open it yourself."

Glovendale shifted uncomfortably in place before heading back up the stairs and away from there as soon as possible.

Victoria looked at Saxton who was fighting against every ounce in his body not to charge at her. She strolled over to Athar. "You were always so keen on obeying my family," she snarled at him, a viper waiting to spit its venom at any moment. "You've exchanged one master for the other, one too afraid to even face me. And he is not even a Fell."

"William is the son of Philip," Athar said back. There was no malice to his voice, no judging or condescension, only pity.

"He has tricked you all." When the queen spoke, it sounded like she held true sorrow for them. "Even now he does not step down for a chance to end this war. Would you follow a man like that?" she asked.

"Do not speak of things beyond your comprehension," Emmett Saxton said.

"Open the coffin, Your Highness, and bid farewell to your sister before I have the guards throw you into my dungeons," Isabella stepped forth to say to her.

The veiled creature turned her way and she fought hard not to flinch. What could Victoria say without looking petty? "They will not be your dungeons for long," she said in a calm manner.

Isabella left Edward's side and walked up to the older woman. "Do not test me, Victoria," Isabella countered coldly. The queen arched an eyebrow, this was not the same frightened little girl that she had enjoyed teasing almost a year ago in Wessport. Isabella Swan was, if anything, a true adversary now—defying her proudly and openly.

Victoria was about to open her mouth when Edward stepped between them. "Open the coffin or I will drag you out of here myself," he growled at her.

Victoria ignored him and went to turn her backs on them. "I want you all out," she said nonchalantly.

"I will go nowhere. I will see this with my own eyes—" Isabella started, cut off by Athar.

"If it is Her Highness' wish, I shall do as she pleads," Athar bowed. "I do this favor to you for the love I hold for your father," he spoke as he walked past her. "And I am not siding with Lady Swan in having you brought down in chains for that same love. The mere reason you have been allowed here is because your brother allowed it and because your sister was the saint that she was."

He walked to the stairs and never looked back. The rest of them could not know how Athar's indifference affected the queen. She would have preferred him screaming and condemning her name. Instead, the way he so coolly treated her was worse considering he had taken part in her upbringing; had been a sort of father figure in her life.

Saxton shook his head for a long time. "I loved your sister," he said. "And I know without a doubt that you killed her." The tremor to his voice glazed Isabella's eyes as she heard every ounce of suffering within it. "I do not understand how you are even allowed to stand here, where she lies dead because of you." He shook his head.

Edward walked over to his friend. "Let her say her goodbyes. If we leave, her walls will come undone, I believe she will truly suffer for it. But not when we are around," the masked general whispered.

Saxton's brown hair glistened in the candlelight, his eyes shone like black gems in their yellowish light. "If Edward Cullen asks, then I shall agree," he murmured.

Isabella stared as the broken man left them, only to be met by her husband's stern gaze. "We have to go as well, Isabella," he said to her.

"No," she shook her head. "I refuse."

He took her hands in his, ignoring the affection he displayed before Victoria. She already knew how much they loved one another. His gloved hand brushed her cheek. "Trust me," he whispered in her ear, the warm air tickled her skin.

She turned to look at Victoria who had not even turned around, but only waited for them to leave.

Isabella finally reluctantly took his hand in hers and lead him away to the stairs.

A moment passed where Victoria knew she was not watched anymore. She stared at the coffin in complete and utter fear. She did not wish to see what lay within it, but she had to.

She wafted her gloves and let her fingers trail the glazed mahogany, slipping against the surface, hovering above the iron closing by the side. Maybe it was all some strange dream her mind had conjured. Maybe she would wake up and find that they were all in Wessport, all well, all alive—even father.

The coffin rested mid-height, just above her hips and the lid was heavier than she would have suspected. Victoria fought hard to make it open fully.

She froze once she saw the corpse inside, the woman who was no longer her sister.

Rosalie's skin was grayish, her lips dark, her face had started to sink in. Her skin looked strange, almost as if made of wax. Her little sister had turned into a lifeless doll—so beautiful, even in death. Yes, Victoria had always been elevated as a beauty in Angloa. But Rosalie with her golden locks and eyes, her delicate features and gentle smile, had been overlooked. Yet, Victoria could not ignore them now; could not ignore that her sister had always held the true beauty of the family; a beauty that emerged from the inside and out. A beauty their mother had had as well.

She felt her cheeks stain with her tears as her face twisted in pain, as she leaned over her sister and cried; as she had come there to do.

Victoria, who had lost her capital to the English, stood there in complete defeat, not willing even now to realize she had to give up for the good of Angloa. Standing by the sight of her sister's grave, clutching at her corpse, the queen let her frustrations out in her crying until there was nothing left, only a void.

The minutes passed into hours until she was finally done. There were no tears left to spill. She closed the coffin, overcome by a strange fatigue.

She left the crypts, not even bothering to alert anyone as she slipped away in the darkness to her small escort. But maybe they wanted it that way; acting as if she had never even been there.

She mounted her horse in the courtyard as she saw the shadow of her former general close in on them.

"Has Rosalie's death made you see reason?" came the dark voice.

She sat on her horse for a long while, looking at him, at this man that, for some strange reason people decided to trust in.

"It has made my path clearer," Victoria answered honestly.

"I believed you could change once—as did Rosalie," he stated.

A small, genuine smile trailed across her tired features. "This war must end, one way or another, Cullen," Victoria said. She saw his lips press into a thin line and an unspoken moment passed between them. "She was the only family I had left—"

He did not contest that. Victoria was now alone in the world for to him, she was not his sister anymore. She never had been; only an enemy.

"William Fell has been lenient enough to let you enter Adelton, despite the many protests of the lords that now follow him," he whispered, getting closer to her. She held her breath as he walked up to her where she sat on her horse. Even now he held a spell over her and Victoria could not leave the sight of those enigmatic eyes even for a second. How they captivated her, how they stirred something deep and primal within her, making her shift in her seat.

"He believes that you could lay down your weapons, fight against the English with us—"

"The time for such things has come to an end," the sad queen said. "But I think you know that. Give him my thanks, for having allowed me this. But I will not acknowledge this William Fell as my sovereign. Let him know that he should cast aside any silly ideas of crowning himself. Wessport is lost, New London will fall soon. I will find my way to my rightful place on the throne once more. It is a friendly warning, back down now and I will forgive everyone who followed my sister."

But the masked man before her, who had stoically listened to her words, shook his head. Victoria, despite herself, nodded in acceptance. "I understand." A part of her realized the followers of her sister would never back down. She had gone too far, and she would never regain their love or respect again.

"The next time you appear like this before us, we may not be so lenient."

She chuckled. "You could kill me now and have this war over with," she started. Laughing felt strangely out of place to her. Victoria silenced her unnatural reaction as she leaned forward. "But we both know your damned _honor_ would not let you. It will be your undoing one day, Cullen. Mark my words."

They stood, faces mere inches from one another until she finally enticed her horse into a rapid gallop, eager to put some distance between herself and the masked fiend.

Edward stared after the queen and felt his hands turn into fists, felt the anger and sadness spread across his being.

 _November 4th – Adelton Hall_

All of the united lords south of New London looked to him now, looked to William Fell and Edward Cullen to lead them.

He looked up, piercing green eyes staring at each face as if assessing it. He knew his duty to his country. He wondered what his mother would say if she were still alive. He wondered what Claudine would say. Two women who had given their lives for him in one way or another, and despite it all, his destiny could not be escaped. The very thought that he had no control over his life bore down hard on him.

Alas, he did not let it show.

"We ride to New London, my lords," his strong, smooth voice boomed. He let the words sink in for a moment. They needed more—wanted for him to speak the whole truth. Edward pushed his feet hard into the floor, fighting against showing any weakness. Carlisle sat by his right side, Saxton to his left. "There I take my sister's place," he continued.

In any other circumstance, if it had been anyone else, the situation might indeed have looked dire. For was it not strange for a long-lost prince to suddenly return? Strange to have his sister fall ill so that he could claim the throne in her stead and thus become king and rule? Indeed, maybe that thought had passed through their minds. But the look on William's face the first time he had firmly spoken against takin the crown, the throne, ruling Angloa—it had been the look of a man who spoke the truth and nothing but the truth. They knew, however, that he would fulfill his duty. In that respect, he was so like his father.

"And in New London?" Glovendale dared to ask as he looked to his new leader.

Edward shook his head. "Let us get to New London first." There were no more words to say. He would go there and deal with it as it came. He needed a plan of action, he needed guidance from men that knew him—truly _knew_ who he was.

 _November 9_ _th_ _– Wessport_

The gates opened for her with a loud protest. Victoria Fell wrinkled the nose at the battered city as she entered with her entourage. Some of her lords had refused to come. She had taken care of them, others had escaped in the night. But she would find them. And she would take care of them as well.

Her horse took her through the frozen mud up to the palace—her old home. She saw the cross of Saint George everywhere. The English were truly demonstrating their claim of _her_ city. But she would keep a leash on her temper and deal with them not as a queen, but as a diplomat. For Angloa was still _hers_.

She had considered at one point to fend off the English once she'd gotten a better grip of her country. Victoria found, however, that it was not meant to be. She would have to sell off her country so that she could remain on her throne, and she started realizing the price she was paying for it.

What was left of her army was outside of the city gates; not allowed to enter. The only loyal lords left were Alistair and a handful of others. Launël had been one of those who had fled.

She got off her horse and walked past the guards into her palace with Alistair by her side. The other lords followed, already knowing what she was about to do.

Wessport Palace had strangely lost its luster. What had once been a grand building with a vast court full of courtiers stood emptier than ever. The nobility had either fled to Adelton Hall, Zafra in the south, New London or their own country estates to take shelter. There were few left in Wessport except for Amalia Rajac, still held captive. Monica Savoie was also there, now a widow.

General Percy Beauchamp waited for her in the Throne Room, standing right next to the throne. He looked around, a big smile splitting his face in two. He had finally achieved what he'd set out to do almost four years prior—take the capital of Angloa. The rest of the road was now paved out for him and his troops to take the rest of the island. That they should've had an internal conflict suited them rather well.

He saw the queen enter and turned to welcome her with open arms. "Finally, we meet in Wessport!" he exclaimed jovially.

Victoria had no smile plastered on her features. "You were not to come with your armies Beauchamp," she growled at him. "Nor take _my_ capital."

He wafted a lazy hand in the air. "Yes, yes, I know the agreement you have with my country." The smile grew sly. "But you were losing, and we had to take action." His head cocked to the side. "Besides, you sent your army to fight us off. Treating us like enemies goes against the agreement we had."

Victoria put up a hand. "I will remind you that you are speaking to the Queen of Angloa and you should show some respect!" Her eyes drilled holes into him and he could not help it as his smile slipped slightly. Say what they wanted about the mad queen, she was still fierce enough to command some respect and silence within him. "Those men who you met up north were a rogue force fighting for my sister. And those men that rode out of Wessport to meet you were headed by a Frenchman by the name Savoie—he did not act upon my command."

The general muttered something under his breath that Victoria did not quite catch.

"So, tell me, general, what justifies your sacking of Wessport? The agreement still stands because I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. Now you have to do yours. I will help you take down the pretender in New London and in turn you allow me to remain as Queen of Angloa."

Alistair kept his eyes on the ground, he knew of this deal since long before. But a part of him still felt shame. He would gain a great many riches and lands form this, not to mention the power. But he felt like he had long since sold his soul to the devil. Alas, the coward did not speak. Not anymore.

"Alright… the deal remains," Percy Beauchamp said with a hesitance lacing his voice. "But when all this is over, we reserve our right as a country to decide which people you may take prisoners, and which you will not—"

"Who I decide to imprison or execute for their treason against me is none of your or your king's business," Victoria spat, ignoring the irony of her words.

"You know what we spoke of when we set this whole ordeal up all those years ago. And you will keep to those words," he smirked.

Victoria rose an eyebrow in distaste. She did not like this man. Hopefully, he would not be the one remaining to watch over her as she governed Angloa. One thing was certain, the queen was not to be a puppet. She would make that clear as soon as the one who said to be her brother was killed as well.

"Let us start by marching on New London, then we may discuss the future," Victoria stated with staccato tones lacing her voice, the venom evident as she spoke. He did not seem as affected when he clearly saw he had touched a nerve.

She was about to head to her old rooms, for now, she was to take residence in Wessport once more when he spoke after her before she left the room. "Terribly sorry about your sister!" the general said her way. Victoria stopped, frozen in her tracks. Could he know? No, impossible.

The queen turned around. "I will meet you in the assembly room in an hour, general, to discuss New London. Do not be late."

She left with haste, Alistair promptly following her, the queen growling for him to find Amalia and Monica. She wanted her court ladies by her side to take the bulk of her anger once more. And Alistair wouldn't have it any other way.

 _November 12_ _th_ _– New London_

He sat by the window that overlooked an inner courtyard. Mosaics in blue, topaz and white lined the floor. Some browned leaves had yet to be swept away by the chilly winds. He had gotten the royal chambers of Aldea, the palace of New London.

Isabella had decided to come with him.

The first day of their arrival, all lords who had remained in the newly conquered city had let him know of their supposed sorrow. Even Thorpe had dared to approach the prince with his false laments. Lord Graham had seemed genuine to him, as had Quinn—even Alan.

Rosalie was gone, one of his pillars, a figure of strength and stability in his life had disappeared forever. The only ones he now confided in were Jacob, Carlisle, and Isabella. And, even to some strange extent, he had sought out Friar Nicholas as well. The day of their departure he had spoken a long time with him, trying to see sense in things. Nicholas was reasonable, not spurred by political thought like the others might be. Edward had been shown what path he should take as it had so clearly been presented before him.

In a few hours, they would all gather at the Throne Room of Aldea where Edward would share his supposed plan with them. He did not yet fully know what that plan was. He knew he'd have to be made king. But they did not hold Wessport where he was supposed to be crowned.

Isabella snuck her way into his rooms with the help of Jacob who stood on the lookout.

"Sulking does not suit a prince," she said as she walked over to him, planting a loving kiss on his cheek and then sitting down on one of the settees in the room.

He ignored her statement and kept looking at the dead leaves on the mosaic courtyard down below. A maid walked past, not knowing the prince was regarding her with pensive eyes.

"You are lost," a voice suddenly whispered in his ear. Edward jumped surprised. Somehow Isabella had soundlessly snuck up on him, just right next to him and leaned over his shoulder.

"You know what I have to do in the Throne Room," he murmured to her.

Isabella went to bite her lip, following his gaze and staring at the rustling leaves. "One year," she whispered to him, never removing her chocolate eyes from the dancing dead leaves.

"What?" he asked, tearing his gaze away from them to meet her.

Isabella smiled, a mixture of sadness and happiness expressed in it. Her chestnut locks were pushed back, her navy-blue gown flowing out behind her as she sat. Jacob stared at the ground keeping silent in their presence.

"It has been more than one year now since we first met."

It surprised him that she would remember. She shifted in her seat, taking his hand lovingly in hers.

"Since the beginning, you have always struck me as someone who knew what he had to do, this strange confidence I could not explain. And it has always made me safe—made me believe in you and your capabilities." Isabella paused, holding his forest green eyes steadfast with her chocolate ones. "I trust in you wholeheartedly, Edward. I trust you beyond anything words could ever explain. That is why I know you will walk to the lords and you will tell them what we both know you have to tell them."

He knew where she was going with her words, yet he did not stop her, only squeezed her hand.

"You will be king, and you will guide us in this conflict to end it. You do not represent yet another player in this war—you are the one who will end it, Edward. That is _why_ you stepped forth. That is why they wish to follow you."

"If I become king, there might be a slight chance we could never be—" He could not bring himself to utter the final words.

Her expression did not falter, her eyes did not lower or shy away from his. To his surprise, another soft smile broke her features. But this one held more impact for he saw hope kindled within it. "We will find a way, Edward. And when the time comes, you and I will deal with it."

He knew what she was doing. She was giving him her permission. Isabella had known the reason for his hesitance. And it was her. Mainly her. Alas, she would not stand in the way for ending such a vast conflict. She refused to be selfish. A part of her knew that coming clean and telling the lords who Edward truly was could be disastrous. And would they truly find such a chance after the war ended? She did not even wish to think of it.

Her eyes trailed over his handsome features. She knew they would follow him if he would only lead. Edward was natural, a true ruler.

"Telling them the truth now might not be such a good idea. Let the war end—tell them who truly fought for them as Edward Cullen if you wish." She still held hopes that they would be together. For, indeed, how strange would it look if Isabella Swan was to suddenly switch Edward Cullen for William Fell after all knew of her love for the first?

He reached out for her, ignoring Jacob's presence altogether and embraced his wife. "I love you," he whispered gently into her ear. He savored the scent of her hair, of her sweet fragrance. He held her longer than was proper. He did not care. "I love you with all my heart," he said again.

"And I you—as William Fell _and_ Edward Cullen. I love the man you have turned into." She held him strongly as well. "I love everything about you, Edward," she sighed into his arms.

Realization dawned on him that Isabella was slowly turning into another pillar of strength, slowly replacing that which Rosalie had been.

Jacob looked at the loving couple with a sad expression on his features. "Edward," he interrupted after a while. "Tis' time," he continued.

Isabella broke away from him before he could. With one look she had said it all. He had her full support, her full trust, and her full love.

Edward had always been pulled in both directions; one of love and another of duty. Yet, now it seemed love pushed him toward duty. And he would do as Isabella had urged him to do.

The prince of Angloa walked to the Throne Room accompanied by Jacob Black and General Cullen.

His lords awaited him in the impressive marble throne room, high in roof with tall windows letting the mid-morning light seep inside. All colors of autumn were fading now, as they awaited the first snowfall: arriving later than usual this year.

The marble seemingly made the room coldly echo. He felt as if he were back in the east, for some strange reason. As if he was sitting in the westernized palace of the sultan of the Ottoman Empire himself.

Edward sat down, noticing Thorpe was there. He would have to take care of the cardinal. His involvement in the coup was obvious, yet with no witnesses nor evidence pointing in that direction, there was little he could do.

Athar sneered at the cardinal, as did Glovendale. Both were outraged to find him in the throne room but had little time to fuss about it before the prince came.

"Victoria has joined forces once more with the English—and openly this time," Saxton stated without any other pleasantries. They were jumping straight into business. "And not only my spies tell me of this." His eyes sent daggers to Thorpe, who sat in stoic silence until the prince himself redirected his gaze toward him.

"I wonder something, Cardinal," Edward said in his direction.

The chubby cardinal shifted under the gaze of the prince. His small eyes squinted further, his thick fingers clasped together, and his red robes caught the sunlight, stabbing their eyes with their intensive color. "I am at your disposal, Your Highness," he answered.

"From what General Cullen has explained, you played a part in the wrongful accusation of Thomas Athar. You also imprisoned General Cullen and Carlisle Chaeld when they passed briefly through Rome and have been known to imply that you were involved in Victoria Fell's overthrowing of Jasper."

Thorpe's eyes shifted from Athar to Glovendale, Graham and the other lords. Most looked sourly at him. He stared at the prince once more, now leaning forward with a disinterested look on his face.

"Tell me now why I shouldn't throw you into the dungeons."

"Your Highness!" Thorpe stated. "Lord Athar's imprisonment was based on true evidence. Lady Swan's own maid—who also served Lord Cullen—testified. I never conjured up such evidence. The same can be said for the documents I found in his office. As for the incident in Rome," he looked at Carlisle and bit back a remark. "I apologize to General Cullen for any discomfort I may have caused him—"

"But you still remained in Wessport—were even welcomed there by Victoria herself—" Carlisle growled.

Thorpe shrugged his shoulders. "I took a neutral stance in this conflict. Most of it I spent in Rome. I tried to keep out as much as possible."

"Yet now you are taking sides," Edward added. He knew he had little to go on that would incriminate Thorpe. Even after the minor inquisition against him, there was still little he could do legally unless Thorpe confessed his involvement. And such a thing would, of course, never happen.

"Because I realize where Victoria is headed. I stay true to the crown." He bowed his head to Edward. "And you are truly who you say you are, I can see your father's resemblance in you. By right of birth, thus by God, you are entitled to the throne she claims to hold." The words were flattering, but many there knew the viper would switch sides in a heartbeat if it favored him.

He had to tolerate Thorpe, as Carlisle had so kindly put it. But for Carlisle, it was easy, for he could openly show his distaste for the cardinal while in the guise of the masked general. Edward himself had never had an acquaintance with Thorpe as William Fell and could therefore not have an opinion of the man.

"I had to ask, Cardinal," the prince stated. Thorpe brushed it off once he was sure he was safe once more in their company. Athar was aghast, having wanted William to cast the cardinal aside. Yet, Thorpe _was_ powerful, and they could still make use of his influences and power. "What have _you_ heard from the north?"

"I might have heard news from my fellow priests in Wessport as well," he started. "Indeed, Victoria has been seen in Wessport in the company of Percy Beauchamp."

Edward fought hard not to react at the name of the English general whom he had fought during the previous war—a man who he had only met once while under his other persona. No doubt Beauchamp was keen on taking down Edward Cullen once and for all.

Athar had remained silent all this while. As had Glovendale, Irias and Raleigh, those of the highest ranks in that room, besides the prince, of course.

"The real question is now, Your Royal Highness, how we proceed," Athar said as he leaned forward. His gray eyes flickered, his white hair was pushed back, and he held Edward's face in his sight, anticipating his answer. The prince could hear the old advisor hold his breath as he awaited the younger man's answer. He knew what he wanted to hear.

"We must rally our forces and fight my sister," Edward stated as if it was the most obvious thing.

"Of course," Irias interrupted. The thin lord with brown hair nodded along. "But that is not what we are referring to. What will _you_ do now?"

The green orbs of the prince shifted about the room, bathed in the strong rays of the sun. He took in the silent magnificent splendor. He took in the poise, the sheer majesty of that throne room. His eyes darted to where the new throne sat, the throne of olden kings. He could savor the answer on the tip of his tongue, wishing to break past his lips. He feared its impact, feared the future it would bring him. But, in a strange way, he _wanted_ to say it. The answer held the key to his destiny, the key to Angloa's future.

"Rosalie didn't crown herself… She thought it blasphemous to have two queens claiming the divine right of the crown—at the same time nonetheless," he began. The wooden chair grew stiff against his back and he saw their eyes locked on to him. He looked at the throne once more, deciding not to fear it anymore.

"But I do not feel that way."

Seven words echoed strangely eerie in that room. Seven words that made Athar's heart jump in his chest, inflicting a strange sort of emotion within most of them. They waited for him to continue, anticipated it as if they were watching the unbelievable happen.

"I have sworn to myself that I shall only meet Victoria as an equal, my lords." He looked out over his council. "And that means meeting her only as another royal— _only_ as a king."

Athar gulped, feeling the goosebumps etch their way onto his skin. This was what he had fought for, for so long. This was what he had hoped ever since he had heard Leonore was with child. But he had never dared.

Irias broke the silence first. "Wessport is under English occupation, Your Royal Highness—"

"I will not be crowned in Wessport," Edward interrupted. He let silence reign, and none dared break it. However, Thorpe deemed it worthy to intercede.

"With all due respect, but all kings and queens of Angloa have been crowned in Wessport for as long as I can remember."

"Not always, Cardinal. For, tell me, where were they crowned before the English occupation? Where were the three kings crowned at the end of the war of independence?" he asked.

It started dawning on them that he was implying, and they widened their eyes. A boyish grin spread on Saxton's features as he looked at Carlisle, no doubt thinking General Cullen had passed on the idea to the prince.

"But it is _New London_ ," Raleigh dared as he too understood what the prince was saying.

"You cannot be crowned _here_ ," Fawkes growled, almost as if insulted.

"No, Fawkes, in that you are right. I could not crown myself in _New London_ ," Edward agreed. The stigma of the once splendid capital of Angloa having been turned into an English stronghold was still very much present. "But I _can_ crown myself in _Safeira_."

The sunlight passed over the blue rooftops of the city, making them glisten in the cold day. The men sat around the table as if mute, not really knowing what to answer.

"But that is…" Thorpe dared to say, alas not knowing how to continue.

Now it was Carlisle who spoke on Edward's behalf. "Safeira was once the seat of Angloa—once our capital. Why do we not take her back? Why can we not show the whole country that we are restoring the old to its former glory?"

Something warm started expanding in most chests. Saxton nodded vigorously. "It was only a few hundred years ago until we stopped crowning kings and queens here. But New London—Safeira is the true seat of power. His Royal Highness is right. If he is crowned king here, as the true son and heir of Philip Fell, in the ancient capital, he removes any legitimacy Victoria ever had when she was crowned in Wessport. He restores the true legitimacy here."

Indeed, it was a brilliant plan, and most started seeing that. Even Lord Graham, who was present as well.

"The Cathedral of Wessport was constructed in the name of your father, Your Royal Highness," Thorpe started with his nasal tone. "Turning your back on that is turning your back on the work your father put down in raising a new city," he smirked.

Edward looked at him a long while. "Wessport has been tainted by Victoria. She has sullied it with the executions, with letting the enemy in, with killing our cousin within its walls. And while my father made the city become prosperous and built up to become a powerhouse, his daughter has torn all that work down already. My lords, I will only be crowned if it is here—and if the city is restored to its previous name: Safeira."

The ultimatum hung in the air of the throne room, anticipation slick. It was heavy, it was loaded with emotion. But they all nodded.

"Then we have your first decree, Your Royal Highness," Lord Graham stated. "All shall know how New London will change back to be called Safeira once more—"

"And who will crown you?" interrupted Cardinal Thorpe.

"Who crowned Victoria?" asked Athar the cardinal, wrinkling his nose at the constant interruptions.

Thorpe turned flustered. "It has always been the Bishop of Wessport who has crowned the kings and queens of Angloa since the time of Philip Fell."

"Yet such an honor should befall the _Arch_ bishop, don't you think? He is, after all, the most senior. Indeed, the Archbishop of Maesir."

Maesir was a region to the south, the seat of clerical power in Angloa. While the country did indeed have an archbishop, Cardinal Thorpe—who was also an ordained bishop by the church—had managed to grab onto more power as he was continuously going between Wessport and Rome.

The archbishop did not seek the same power as Thorpe, and thus he had decided to remain in his remote bishop's palace and await his final days. Thorpe hungered for the seat of the archbishop and was continuously worked toward his final goal—that of papacy.

"His Grace Clarence of Maesir has kept to his palace for the last decade—" Thorpe began.

"Then we shall call on him, for being crowned by the Archbishop should be the only way," Glovendale interrupted while sending a stern look Thorpe's way. He had no like for the cardinal either. He still remembered Edward and Carlisle being kept in their cells in Rome, how they had been beaten by the guards, hung and chained by Thorpe's request.

"Send for him and make sure he is within the city walls before you proclaim this coronation to take place," Edward continued.

"Your Royal Highness, I do not think we should put the Archbishop through such an extenuating journey—"

"His Grace will come, as the prince has said. And the prince's word is final, Cardinal," Carlisle growled, emanating clear distaste for the man. "If you have any objections to his decision take it up with me."

Thorpe paled, and Edward fought hard to hide the smirk. The other lords closed their ears to the confrontation—all except Graham, Irias, and Glovendale. Irias had no love for Thorpe either, but so mindlessly casting such a highly respected man of the country aside was unwise. For now, they needed him on their side. The treatment of Thorpe started giving Graham some ideas.

* * *

 **A/N: Hey there! Another chapter, they're coming out fast now, eh? I'm trying to finish this fic before the 24th of December as a sort of Christmas present to you all :D I keep saying there isn't a lot left all the time but it is true, I swear. There are around 30+ chapters or so, but I've been cutting out a lot of unnecessary parts (I do love my details!). I'll try to see if I can update again at the start of next week!**

 **Hoping you like it!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	27. Chapter 27

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 27_

 _November 12_ _th_ _, 1520 – Safeira_

Later that evening, in the shadows of night, Thorpe muttered as he paced back and forth within the confinements of his own chambers. He was not surprised when a knock sounded and Lord Graham entered unannounced.

"Quite a stir he causes, that William," Graham chuckled.

Thorpe eyed him cautiously. He had never really known where Graham stood in all of this. Much like Lord Irias, Raleigh and Black, he had always kept to the outside of the conflict—wisely so. While Thorpe could hide in the church and claim some passiveness there, the other lords had to play it by heart.

"What do you want, Graham?" the tired old man muttered. His chubby body moved away from the window, the splendor of the afternoon sun made the sapphire rooftops glisten. Frost had already started forming.

"I think we both understand each other, yes?" Graham began casually, walking further into the chamber. He was used to Thorpe's ways after having spent weeks on end living in the same palace as he. And after a while, both men understood that they were cut from the same cloth, they thought in the same manner.

Thorpe scoffed. "Perhaps," he said cautiously. "Depending on if we define those words the same way," he added in a cryptic manner which made Graham chuckle. Thorpe never liked being direct. There was never a yes or no answer. He slithered away from those like a snake, excellent with his wording to the extent that, sometimes, he could twist a whole situation in his favor. It was probably the reason why the crown prince had not been able to justify throwing him into the dungeons.

"You _will_ have to choose a side soon, Cardinal, lest you find yourself in your country of birth with none to follow."

"And _you_ will have to choose a side as well, Lord Graham. If William Fell is to be crowned king in Safeira, Victoria will take that as an insult. She would not spare you."

Graham inclined his head slowly. "So, it would seem we are in the same boat. Because those who were previously loyal to her have ceased to be so. Alan Moore…Lord Quinn…they have given their complete allegiance to William now." Graham could still not believe that Quinn, a man so full of a sense of duty and honor had left Victoria Fell for William.

Suddenly it hit Thorpe what Graham was implying. "The only way we succeed in times such as these are if we remain loyal to _ourselves_. Although I suspect you are already familiar with that path?" He rose an eyebrow.

"And sometimes, those of us who know this path could benefit from working together," Graham added.

"For what outcome?" Thorpe wondered.

"Well, if you are involved in the crowning William and he loses, I think you can bid goodbye to the papacy—Victoria would do all in her power to have you removed." Graham shrugged his shoulders.

"As she would you, the steward who allowed that boy to have the crown placed atop his head. You'd lose the iron grip you've held so far over Safeira, Graham."

"Alas," the scheming lord continued. "If William Fell wins over his sister, I suspect we shall all be greatly rewarded."

Thorpe shrugged his nose. "I never gamble on anything, my lord. For me, everything always falls into place," he smirked. Graham knew exactly what he was implying and arched an eyebrow. Thorpe continued. "There are some at this new court who would have to be removed regardless—for the better of us."

"I agree," Graham nodded. "You hold no love for Edward Cullen, but he will be difficult and is right now an important piece to secure this war."

Thorpe eyed him slowly, still deciding if he could trust him.

"We can control Cullen if we separate him from Swan," he continued. "It is Theodore Glovendale that impedes me—us from reaching our goals. He sours Athar further against us. And we need Athar thinking we are on _his_ side."

Graham chuckled. "Athar will never accept you after what you did to him all those months ago in Wessport. You humiliated him by having him imprisoned. However, you are right about Glovendale. We cannot have both him and Athar here, it gives them too much power working together. And there needs to be…balance," Graham smirked.

Thorpe was amazed at how quickly both had managed to turn the conversation around from a hostile one to one of working together. He would never fully trust in Graham. But right now, he could use him to his own benefit.

* * *

Jacob leaned against the pillar and watched the western horizon swallow the sun, watched Safeira glisten with frosted rooftops. Any day now it could snow, making their battles become more difficult than previously. They should wait out the winter, the coronation. But there was no time for it.

Jacob could still not get over how broken Isabella looked, how alone she could appear to be whenever she sought refuge in her chambers with Alice. The maid never asked what was wrong. But Jacob knew what the young woman suffered from. And it broke his heart in two.

"They say the sunsets of New London…Safeira... are the most beautiful in all of Angloa," came a voice behind him.

Jacob froze once he heard that voice. He slowly turned around and saw the robust figure of his father looking at him.

"I have nothing to say to you," he muttered and was about to leave.

Billy Black stepped in front of his son. "Your brothers and sisters ask for your health," he said in staccato notes. It was evident that the grand southern lord himself was uncomfortable with the situation.

"Tell them that I remain fighting a war," Jacob added dryly. "A war you never wished for me to fight—"

"I told you then that going up to the north and battling the English was not our way—that you should have remained at home, passive in that conflict," his father reprimanded.

"Yet you went against your own words, for are we not standing in a city our forces conquered only a few weeks ago?" Jacob asked his father.

Billy's lips pressed firmly together. He remained silent, proud to a fault. Jacob sighed and walked away from him, irritated at his father's double standards.

 _November 18_ _th_ _– Safeira_

The ground was frozen when his carriage made it past the vast gates to the sapphire city. "I hear they call it _Safeira_ once more," the old man mused to the friar before him. The friar nodded, and his plump cheeks bulged in a smile. "By _royal_ decree, Your Grace," father Nicholas said.

Nicholas, who was the closest to Maesir and thus the most trusted, had been tasked with accompanying the archbishop to Safeira himself. Clarence had stepped foot within the city a few times before, in his youth. Memories of what he used to be emanated from the elegant structures. He saw the familiar aqueduct rising high in the distance, the old cathedral reaching for the sky, the frosted rooftops as the temperature had dropped below freezing.

The city was cleaner than usual, no doubt in preparations for the prince's coronation. Nicholas had never in a million years thought William Fell would willingly crown himself thus—and restore the old capital in the process. Something about the sacrifice the young man was doing, made Nicholas' heart swell in his chest.

"No doubt it stirs up some memories returning here," the archbishop whispered with a raised eyebrow. He was nearing his ninetieth birthday quickly. He had lived in a time of peace for most of his life. The height of it had been under Philip Fell's reign. Something stirred within Clarence of Maesir at the prospect of now crowning the son of such a prominent man. "I hope the son takes after the father," he continued.

"More than we could ever hope—yet he is his own man, Your Grace…you shall see," Nicholas winked.

Clarence's white hair caught some stray sunbeam as it brushed over his head, slipping past the purple cap that covered the crown of his head. His kind, hazel eyes squinted as he looked out over the city. "I hope Thorpe will not be too big of a nuisance."

"Let me worry about Thorpe, Your Grace."

Clarence nodded in thanks. The cardinal was insufferable, had managed to kick him out of every celebration, every invitation to the royal palace of Wessport for the last thirty years. Ever since Philip had died, Clarence had lost any footing at court or in the country. Not that it mattered, but he was saddened to see the state Angloa had fallen to.

The carriage took them up to Aldea, past the avenue of cypress trees and he was swiftly shown to his quarters.

A brief moment of relaxation was allowed him before he, later that evening, expressed his will to meet the prince he was to crown the following week.

Clarence was led to the Throne Room—its impressive size, the white and black marble, the tall windows and crystal dome always managing to draw a deep breath of awe from him.

He walked into the room, already prepared on the uncanny likeness he was to bear witness to. William Fell seated the throne, Lord Graham sat next to him as the steward. Edward Cullen stood to his right by the foot of the platform. Clarence recognized Thomas Athar, Theodor Glovendale, Cardinal Thorpe and many more in that room. Most seemed keen in welcoming him. He paid little heed to the sulking cardinal and directed his hazel eyes to where it mattered.

They all watched in awe as the aged man's eyes widened slowly at the sight of William Fell. The prince got up and walked to the archbishop. He would not sit before him and pretend he was more important than the older man. He wished to show his respect to him.

"It gladdens me that you are finally here, Your Grace," the prince said as he inclined his head in a bow.

Clarence watched the uncanny features before him in shocked and stunned silence. He nodded slowly after a while. "Forgive a senile old man, but if I didn't know any better, I would say I was standing right in front of a very old friend who—by the grace of God—managed to defeat time itself."

Edward smiled at the words. "I am to understand you knew my father well, Your Grace."

"Like some of us here," he nodded and snuck a glance Athar's way.

The old lord stepped forth. "Your Grace, we need a coronation underway, a coronation that confirms what you have already seen before you—a legitimacy that shouldn't have to be confirmed as it is evident. Nonetheless, Victoria Fell will shout to the four corners of the world that William Fell is not who he says he is."

Clarence nodded. "There is, of course, the problem of having two people being anointed and crowned while both alive. However," he snuck a glance Thorpe's way. "I do not think the Vatican will object in this matter."

Thorpe stepped forth. "Your Graces will, of course, forgive me," he nodded to Edward and Clarence. "But Rosalie Fell did the right thing in waiting until the war was won—"

"Your Royal Highness is doing right in this matter, I think. You _are_ the legitimate son of Philip, of that I have no doubt. I knew of his marriage to Leonore. I knew of her pregnancy—a thing that by now should be made more widely known to reinforce your claim. I will crown you here in Safeira as was once custom."

Edward nodded once more in gratitude. "I am forever grateful, Your Grace."

Thorpe's lips pressed firmly shut. This did not bode well for him. His one power was his ties with the church. For decades he had fought hard to suppress Clarence's presence at not only the Angloan court but in the Vatican as well. It could all come undone because of a silly coronation. His eyes caught the smirk of Graham as he rose an eyebrow. Thorpe squinted his eyes at Athar and then to Glovendale and Cullen. Indeed, they would have to act before the coronation.

 _November 18_ _th_ _– North of Alban mountains_

She looked across the camp, more than content with what her eyes saw. The ground had long since frozen over, the mountain pass was closed and those who had wished to flee to the now renamed Safeira had been captured.

Victoria took in the vast forces. More than thirty thousand men and at her command.

"Your Majesty, the prisoners have all been counted for," Alistair started as he walked up to her. The wind was chilly, and he pulled the thick robes closer about himself. "Mostly older men and some womenfolk. Nothing to worry ourselves about."

She kept staring at the mountain pass, at the road blocked by snow that had fallen at the height of the mountains. The queen so wanted to break through it, but the only way to now safely get to Safeira was by ship and it would not be in time to stop the pretender's coronation.

"He thinks that renaming New London and placing a silly crown upon his head will make him king," she murmured with a silken voice. Victoria turned around with blazing eyes, a look of madness soon replaced by something else entirely.

"Your Majesty, perhaps we should send them a message," Alistair began.

She nodded brazenly. "Indeed, and we should take care of it before he has that silly coronation." The queen turned around and faced her confidant. "I do believe that is the best idea you have had in a while, Alistair," she cooed. He straightened up at her words. "Have Amalia Rajac brought to my tent after supper," she continued.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Alistair bowed. He shifted on the frost-covered grass. The whole world was void of color, as frost had ridden it of nuances, of warmth. It was as chilling as the look in Victoria's eyes. There was so little left of what she once was since the loss of her sister that he wondered what even remained of her. The queen seemed now an empty shell, only apt for hating and destroying. "There still remains the matter of the prisoners."

She had started moving to her tent from the hillside upon which they stood. Her velvet dress blew heftily in the wind and her red tresses danced around her white face, the firm ruby line of her lips settled in an indifferent expression. "We should send a message, was it not? Have the soldiers do whatever they wish with the women we captured and then discard them. Have some of your trusted men empty the reserves left in their puny town and then burn it to the ground." She looked to the horizon, her eyes glistening crazily. "I am certain they should spot the smoke from the turrets of Aldea," she spat.

Victoria moved back down the hill as the sunbeams penetrated through gray clouds. Before she was out of earshot from the silenced man, she turned once more. "Crucify the rest of the prisoners," she smirked. "It makes it all rather…poetic…a _biblical_ tone, wouldn't you think?" she asked with a strange light in her eyes.

Alistair remained silent, not willing to share his personal thoughts with her. Victoria was off the rails, as much was clear. There didn't seem to be an ounce left of sanity within her. And if he wished to survive, he had to follow her every wish.

* * *

Amalia shivered as she was dragged in. The brunette stood in nothing but a thin gown. The wife of Rajac had been a prisoner of the queen's for months. Each day she struggled to survive. Somedays they would have to force food and drink down her throat when she gave up. The worst days were when she was forced to write letters of reassurance to her husband—making him think she wasn't suffering at all.

But she was.

So much.

And now she stood there, in the lavish tent, on the luxury of a Persian rug, surrounded by oil lamps, books, silk, and satin. A bed graced one corner of the hexagonal structure. Before her sat the queen herself. Victoria had been silent for minutes, relishing in having the woman before her shiver, trying to guess if it was from fright, the cold or both.

She loved taunting Amalia Rajac. At one point, so had Monica Savoie. Alas, that was to be no more for she had opted to remain behind in Wessport after the death of her husband.

"Tell me, Amalia, are your quarters to your liking here?" she asked as she stirred the warm broth in her cup. Amalia's eyes trailed down to the floor, the woman refusing to break before the queen—she would not give her the satisfaction once more.

"Silent treatment today, is it?" she wondered. "And after all the care I have given you, all thoughtfulness I have shown for you." Victoria set the cup aside harshly on the small table next to her. The sound made Amalia jump in place. She hugged herself and stifled a shiver, her toes digging themselves into the red strands of the rug. It felt good against her frostbitten toes. She hoped the frost would claim her whole body tonight and relieve her of her pains once and for all.

"I need you to write another letter to your dear husband," Victoria kept smiling as she rested her chin in her hand. "Tell him how I need his help in another matter—"

"You can kill me for all I care, Victoria. But I will not help you in your wicked actions anymore!" Amalia spat.

Victoria tsked. "You know, last time he was more than eager to," she said as she stood up. Victoria trailed up to the rugged woman and let a bejeweled finger trail along her lower cheek. "Such a beauty…no wonder he wishes for your well-being," she sighed and trailed along to the other end of her table and picked up a set of shears.

"Alistair!" she shouted, and it was soon that he entered the tent. "Ink, quill, and parchment readied if you please. And a chair for our guest," the Queen beamed as she strolled about the interior of her tent.

Amalia shivered as her eyes trailed to the shears. Victoria had never hurt her herself, she didn't have to. The threats; the way she tormented her mind, was worse than any beating her jailor could deal onto her.

Alistair readied the writing materials on the table and forced her to sit down. The queen soundlessly appeared behind her and Amalia felt her hot breath trail down her back. She closed her eyes and grimaced in fear. "There is another letter you must write your husband, someone else he must take care of if he wishes to see y—"

"You already had him poison Isabella Swan, I will not be party to such a thing again!" she exclaimed. Amalia broke apart thinking she had played a part in the countess' death. For, indeed, no one had bothered to tell her Isabella Swan was in fact very much alive.

Victoria pushed the quill into her shivering hand. "You have seen the size of my army, dear girl. You know we will win, eventually.

Tears of hopelessness, of fear and solace, trailed down dry cheeks; of a dirty and rugged face. Amalia could hear Isabella's words ring through her mind—how naïve she had been in her arrival to Wessport.

"If you behave—when I take back New London—I shall spare your husband, forget his treachery and remember the favors he did for me," the viper whispered in her ear.

Amalia's lip quivered as she shivered.

Victoria pushed the quill into her shaking hand. "That's it, good girl," the queen mumbled into her ear, the sound vile, repulsive and invasive. "I dictate, and you write."

The queen of Angloa looked triumphantly at the broken woman before her. "Dearest husband," she started in a strong tone. "How I long to have you yet again by my side. I find it difficult to be parted from you. Victoria has been most benevolent, but I do not know how long her mercy shall last."

Amalia broke down again and again in cries as she scribbled the words on the parchment, the letters blotchy and shaky as she was reminded of what she was putting her husband through.

"Her Majesty needs another favor now that New London has been lost. As the traitors settle in the old capital, Her Majesty needs a way to reclaim it—the harbor the only remaining option as the mountain pass has been blocked. You must make sure her ships can enter the harbor within the fortnight so that she may invade the city and reclaim it once more to the true crown and not be kept under the pretender. I long to have you in my arms. Yours and always, Amalia."

Victoria entwined a finger in the long locks of Amalia as she brought the shears closer. "A little reminder of you truly being the author," she chuckled as she snapped a long strand and gave it to Alistair to neatly tie into a coil and secure into the letter.

Once New London was reclaimed, she would erase any trail of her past and truly rule without any opposition. And all those who had gone against her would burn at the stake or face her butcher's knife.

The queen leered madly into the empty air, satisfied at her move. Her spies would do the rest and soon she would once more occupy Aldea and Adelton Hall.

 _November 19_ _th_ _– Safeira_

The bells tolled midday as mass drew to its end. The vast cathedral had to be prepared for the following weeks once his coronation was due. They were stretching it out, Edward realized this—he, in part, played a hand in it. The prospect of having to feel the heavy metal weigh down his head would, at times, induce nightmares.

Edward walked in solace, left alone to his own thoughts as he wandered down the nave. He would walk down it in a few weeks, on the eve of his own coronation. But it would be full of people then; of courtiers, of wealthy merchants, of foreign envoys who were interested in the previously unknown prince. People he had never known would be there. People he knew dearly would be there—even Sofia.

He wandered through the tall nave, barrel vaulted with a triforium lining the top of it. At the very top, windows let the sunlight filter in gracefully shining beams down onto the marble path upon which he stalked. The elegant choir was up ahead which was being cleared for the coronation.

The seating stalls of the choir—in the darkest of woods, menacing as they loomed over him—were softened by the light filtering in at the very end of the church; a huge rose window with glass in a faint yellow and light. When the light filtered through and mixed with it, it bathed the altar and choir in gold at a certain point in the day—that was when Archbishop Clarence wanted William's anointment to take place.

If anything, Clarence was a master at planning such things. And he wanted Edward's coronation not only to be done masterfully well—he wanted to envelop it in one simple message: show that the prince was put on the throne with divine approval. Every detail had been thought of and those who would witness his coronation were sure to behold a rather impressive show.

He arrived at the end of the choir, having walked up the small steps upon the now placed red carpet, toward the altar. Another platform had been placed before it where the throne would seat him. And, indeed, the throne upon which he would sit would not be just any old chair; it had been brought from Adelton Hall—the original throne of old Angloa. Even the crown was an old relic, having survived since the twelfth century and being restored to its former glory by the best craftsmen Safeira had to offer.

He had seen the throne many times gracing the Throne Room in Adelton Hall, but having it before him now, knowing he would have to seat it in a short space of time made his throat go dry.

"It will hold you, don't worry," a kind voice spoke to him. He sensed the waft of honey and heard the friendly tremor—recognizing Friar Nicholas. The kind voice brought a smile to his features and he turned around, caught in the sunbeams as the workers carried on. Some would whisper: "There goes the prince" when they saw him. Otherwise, they allowed him space.

Edward nodded slowly, at a loss for what to say. Nicholas went up to him to stand next to him and watch the old piece of wood, take in the breathtaking interior of the grand cathedral.

"Being a king is also facing its solitude, my friend," the friar murmured his way, afraid raising his voice would wake those who rested within the thick walls of the house of God.

"All of this still doesn't feel real to me," the prince said back. "In a few days hence…I will have to take the anointment, have that crown placed upon my head and declared as king of Angloa." The words became extensively heavy, pressing, authoritative. Like the dust settling in a library.

Nicholas' eyes trailed across the prince's face. "Having a piece of metal placed upon your head will not change who you are," the friar smiled. "What makes you a king is not in the titles they will bestow upon you then, or the spire and orb you will hold in the grasp of your hand. It will be in your ability to lead this country, in inspiring her people to turn away from the darkness in which she has been residing within for the last few decades."

"That is a lot to ask of someone."

Nicholas chuckled. "That is why it is called _divine_ right, my boy. Who else could do it?"

Edward could not help but stifle a chuckle. Both knew what he was putting aside. He feared the crown would come between him and Isabella, and he hoped such a thing would not become permanent. He still held the faint belief that—if he could not step forth as William _and_ Edward—he could at least return to the mask, and thus to Isabella.

Steps echoed through the cathedral, bouncing within her interior and off the stone walls as Carlisle approached them in his guise.

"Your Royal Highness," he hurried as he saw a confused Edward.

"Carlisle," Edward murmured, only loud enough for him, Nicholas and Carlisle to hear. "What ails you?"

"Riders, come from the north, having fled from Wessport," the masked one urged. "They've been prisoners of a snowstorm in the Alban Mountains for the past few days and only arrived now.

"From Wessport?" Edward asked.

"Tis Lord Launël who has fled from Victoria—or so he says," Carlisle continued. His eyes lit up then as he continued speaking. "And Durun!" His mouth broke into a smile while Edward's widened.

"D-Durun?" he asked as his eyes grew wide. "Where are they?" He started moving toward the opening, urging to get his horse to them.

"Aldea, they arrived not half an hour ago. Come," Carlisle urged and they both started rushing to the entry.

Edward was about to sprint away when he remembered himself and turned around. "I always appreciate your wise advice, Nicholas!" he turned around to shout before scurrying away. The action provoked a smile within the friar, for it reminded him that Edward was still a young man full of not only youth and vigor but keenness as well.

* * *

Durun had a grittier appearance than most remembered. Much like Rajac, he had gone to hell and back, sustaining wounds that turned into scars in the process. Alas, something in his eyes spoke for what he had endured in the north.

Launël, while still having to flee from the clutches of the queen, managed to look impeccable. His black hair was combed back, and his clothing remained pristine, the doublet had not a speck of dust or dirt to it.

They had been taken to Aldea as soon as they'd entered New London—now renamed Safeira. Launël, who always seemed so sure of himself, was visibly nervous.

"Relax," Durun muttered. "These are true and honest people—nothing like Victoria. Once they hear you helped me escape, they will be lenient with you."

Launël shook his head, the brown eyes growing wider as he stared at the taller man. "Walter, there are many things I've done that…cannot be forgiven—"

Durun put up a hand. "It's not me you have to convince, but the prince and Athar."

"Thorpe will—"

"Do you really believe they will listen to that wretch?" Durun spat at the mention of Thorpe's name. "His days are being counted as we speak. He chose the wrong side. It amazes me he is not yet imprisoned."

"He has more power and influence than most of us could imagine. And he is good with words," Launël trailed off. "Very good."

"I hear the steward of New L—Safeira is rumored to be even better."

Launël shrugged his shoulders as the massive doors to the impressive throne room opened up. "Then I am afraid we might be stepping into the viper's pit, my lord."

Durun arched an eyebrow as he beheld the massive pillars, the white, beige and black marble, the vast windows and crystal dome. "I believe I am in safer company than you."

Launël swallowed audibly and the other lord stifled a small chuckle despite himself.

They were let into the room and stalked the red carpet up to the steps leading to the throne itself, perched under the massive crystal dome that let sunbeams filter in.

Many were those present there. Lord Athar and Glovendale—the most senior on William Fell's council—stood close to the platform and throne, to the left of him. William's right side was, as always, reserved only for his most loyal man—his truest friend: Edward Cullen. And there he stood now as well, appearing larger than life. The southern lords were there too; Irias, Raleigh, and Black, together with his youngest son Jacob. Fawkes stood close to the masked man, together with the Countess of Cadherra, for she had earned an important spot amongst them. As Isabella was now a vast landholder with much power and many riches attained to it, she had asked for another place within the council. And it had been granted, with Athar's reinforced approval. The prince seemed most glad that she was joining them.

Many in Aldea had seen how he would sometimes fight against sneaking a glance at her. But many were those who did, so he could not be faulted for seeing what everyone else saw about Isabella Swan: that she was beautiful.

Some courtiers to Safeira and other southerners joined in as well, now prevalent to the court William was building around himself.

Both men looked to the throne, wondering what man they'd find sitting upon it. Victoria had declared William Fell nothing more than a pathetic pretender—a commoner who happened to share some features with her father, but that was easily dismissible. So, they both prepared to face this pretender.

When Durun saw the seated man, with dark copper locks tumbling over his striking green eyes, with the firm and set jaw, proud nose, and charismatic air, he could not help a small smile spread on his lips.

Launël, on the other hand, gaped at first, stammering and staggering forth the final step to the throne.

Without a word, Durun dropped to one knee in a show of faith and acceptance of the royal. "Your Royal Highness," his words echoed loudly throughout the room. In some ways, his aura reminded some of Edward Cullen. There was the same gravitas to him; a man of war now grown robust from it. Launël stood hesitantly at first but finally offered a bow to the prince.

William Fell looked at them from atop the throne, his fingers drumming softly against the mahogany chair. "Lord Walter, your efforts to stop the English in the north have inspired us here," the prince spoke slowly, in a friendly manner. "I commend you for it," he nodded toward him.

Durun rose back up. "Your Royal Highness, I regret not being able to stop the English further. But I have not come here to have small talk," Durun said and his voice gained poise. "The conflict both of your sisters had blinded them to this invasion. Your sister Victoria—" he hesitated when the prince did not stop him. "Your sister Victoria has joined forces with them and claimed most of the north by now."

"They are just beyond the Alban Mountains," the prince said. "We know— _I_ know," he forced, remembering the cloud of smoke and reports of the small village right by the pass having been burned to the ground.

"I have come here in hopes that I can do more than I did up by Castell." Durun looked to the ground, to the luxurious red carpet leading up to the throne. "I saw them claim Wessport," he mumbled. "I saw what she did to divert the English—to buy time." Durun had no remorse for what he said. Sometimes, out in the fields, watching the wretch of war, of death, he had lost his taste and refinery for court life. The courtiers might wrinkle their noses, but the Safeirans would never truly understand—not like Edward did, not like Carlisle or Jacob did.

"She is vile, as vile as a serpent that woman. And she still plots and schemes to take you down," he mumbled pointing to Launël. "Tell her yourself, Launël," he said.

Launël's eyes darted about the room and he paled slightly as all attention was now placed on him. "Lord Launël, I hear you come from a proud and powerful family here in Angloa," the prince began as he leaned forward. "What on God's green earth made you commit the mistake in joining my sister?" he asked.

Launël swallowed again and started blushing. "A noble thought at first, that fell out of our hands completely" he murmured.

"Could not control her as you thought, did you?" Fawkes muttered.

Launël sent him a glare. "Ever since the loss of Rosalie Fell, Victoria seems to be losing her own senses," Launël admitted. "I think that is why she now openly joined the English—something most of us never really knew she was involved in since the start. There are things that have been emerging about her that…unsettles me," he whispered. Launël ignored the stares he was receiving from Thorpe. "Before continuing, I'd like to know of my safety…here…"

"Lord Launël, I am grateful that you journeyed to Safeira and are willing to share your information with us. However, the acts you committed against my cousin Jasper could still be constituted as treason. Only a court of law can determine what your punishment should be, and there is no time nor resources for such a thing. I am still only a prince and not proclaimed regent of this land. By law, I cannot pardon you." Edward saw Launël lose hope.

"However, such an arrangement could be concluded after I am anointed. Though some ratification for your actions will have to be made." Edward was no fool, he could not give Launël loose reigns and then expect the rest of the nobility would fall in line after their whole ordeal was over. He had to show his power and strength from the beginning.

Many seemed to agree with him as they nodded, the sentence and wording were just and fair. Even Launël seemed to think so. "Alas, does my…life by chance run any danger?" he asked.

The prince looked at him for a long while before finally speaking. "You will not be executed by my orders, my lord. I myself believe such a sentence is too harsh, even for your situation."

Launël breathed out, a weight lifted off his shoulders. And, so, he started sharing what he knew with them. From the start; how Braun had started collecting what he called _patriotic men_ —true and loyal only to the main Fell lineage, believing Jasper should not seat the throne. He then spoke of how Victoria had been revealed as the next to be put on the throne. Alas, nothing had been said about getting help from the English, or that Jasper would eventually be executed. When the initial coup had failed, and Braun had brazenly disappeared with Isabella, they had all slipped back into the shadows, waiting for a perfect moment to strike once more. And when Edward Cullen left, Angloa seemed most opportune.

At first, Victoria had been just, gentle, and sweet with them. She had worried about the people, about her lords and subjects, hoping she was good enough for them. But week after week the old queen faded and gave way to something else, something she'd buried deep inside and never let out until then. She started ruling with fear, with hangings and letting the streets of Wessport run red with blood. She started sharing things about her here and there that made his blood turn to ice in his veins.

"When…we first heard of you, of William Fell, she brushed it off as idiocy, as a pathetic and feeble attempt by her sister to gather more followers. And she seemed so sure that you could not be who you said you were, Your Highness," Launël continued.

"Why was she so certain of this?" Edward already knew the answer, but he needed the rest of Safeira to hear it—it was time— and it couldn't come from him.

"She spoke of a deed she had done in her youth, of a precaution she had taken; that she had the child of Leonore Valois executed and that the child was a girl…" Gasps stifled in that vast room when it was revealed what monstrous action Victoria had committed.

"She…tried to kill her own blood?" some stammered.

"God help us!" someone else cried out into the rising murmurs until they were shushed down. All eyes now trailed up to the prince, a look of recognition flashed across his eyes, thus reinforcing what Launël had just spoken.

"And Victoria willingly shared this with you?" Edward asked as he stroked his growing stubble, now almost a trimmed beard.

"She proclaimed it to all who would listen within our circle. But only after Rosalie perished," Launël nodded. "There are more deeds that woman has committed—people she has had framed." His eyes drifted to Isabella and a sadness passed over them. The countess could feel her heart jump frantically in her chest as she started understanding what was being implied.

"Charles Swan unearthed things about her, about the actions she'd committed in the past that she didn't want to be revealed. He discovered her plot tied to her…to us. So, she had him framed as a traitor and even managed to urge Jasper to have him executed for his guilt," he swallowed hard and looked at Emmett Saxton. "Not that Charles Swan was the only one to fall victim to such a plot," Saxton growled in anger, looking about ready to pounce, remembering well what Victoria's little play and Alistair's part in it had cost him.

Edward's jaw tensed, it was something he'd never wanted Isabella to find out. He believed she'd find peace thinking the only responsible for her father's death, Lord Braun, was gone and had paid for his sins. He let his gaze drift to her, standing in that room in an earthy green gown, her hands clenched into fists as her color paled, her eyes locked and staring at nothing.

Isabella shivered and shook, blinking away the tears, wanting to escape the glances of horror and compassion. She didn't need their pity. The chocolate orbs sought out Launël and stared him down for a long time until finally turning to Edward. She gave him a stiff curtesy and then left the room without a word, composed and respectable even before such a horrendous revelation.

Launël recomposed himself after the spectacle. "Victoria Fell is less than agreeable. Her plans when she accepted the help of the English a second time is now to reclaim Safeira, even if she has to burn it to the ground," he said in muted words. "And she aims to do it before your coronation—"

"That will not happen," Edward told him calmly.

"I am only telling you what I heard being said the final days before my escape…" Launël trailed off. "She has sacrificed many of us so that she may remain on top. Savoie was sent out to battle the English at Wessport and she placed all the blame on him when he lost, using his actions as a scapegoat with the enemy—to cast him aside and once more fortify her relations with the English." Launël had never felt so ashamed. "That was…when I realized what she truly was," he whispered. "I once believed there was some honesty, some honor and good within her. I followed her because I truly believed she wished a change for Angloa."

"I think most who have come into contact with her think the same—at least that is what I perceive. I cannot say as I have never met her myself," Edward lied.

A long silence followed while the prince looked to the side in deep thought. "Lord Athar," he said after a long while. "I think we shall have to reschedule my coronation to be sooner than expected."

Athar nodded in agreement.

"And call on the banners, we need to fortify our positions as well."

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter as we move to the end. I am speeding it up here people. Wait for yet another chapter this week as we close in on Christmas! I am so thrilled we are nearing the end (but a little sad as well). I am also glad you are liking it, and that you've put up with my hectic posting of these chapters for the last two years. In just two weeks it will all be finished and we can all take a breather (as I go over the second and third fic once more. The first has had a small face-lift but might get another one in the future hehe).**

 **Cheers!**

 **Isabelle**


	28. Chapter 28

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 28_

 _November 25_ _th_ _, 1520 – Safeira_

The preparations had been underway. The Commissioners for the Coronation were three in total, appointed by those William Fell trusted in most. Indeed, Edward had placed three people in charge which he knew would handle it gallantly.

First off was Theodore Glovendale. Even if an ambassador, he was not a stranger to the many procedures which would have to be considered on the big day. Edward was confident that the great ambassador—the grand diplomat—would make sure his coronation proclaimed that he truly was king. Not only by its sheer weight and poise; but with all the minor details and symbolism they would lace into it. Already having it in the renamed Safeira was a good start. And using a relic for a crown, now almost completed, together with the oldest throne of Angloa—surviving from before the English conquest—was another way of showing separation from the island in the north.

They had first chosen a specific date for his coronation after much debate, on the very eve of the Second Advent, on December 9th, a Sunday. Alas, Victoria's threat to the city now put in peril those plans, prompting them to move it forward and rush certain things.

The third on the Commissioners for the Coronation was Lord Irias, because of the weight of his power and political presence in the south. While Glovendale took the bulk of the preparations, Irias would allow or disallow things the ambassador threw at him. Essentially, Irias was to represent the Angloan people in the matter.

Lastly, after much debate and no doubt about it in their minds, Clarence of Maesir, His Grace the Archbishop of Maesir, would be the third and final party. Cardinal Thorpe had, of course, tried to slink his way in. And although he had enough power and presence in the country to protect himself from being scrutinized by the prince and lords, he could not forge a likable persona. William refused to have His Eminence as the representative of the church on his committee. Especially when he secretly knew what kind of worm Thorpe truly was. He wanted to get rid of him, to imprison him…but he had no basis for any accusations. There was no proof that Thorpe had willingly followed Victoria. And since he had been cast aside when she fled to Wessport, it reinforced the belief that Thorpe was not her puppet.

But what if Victoria was _his_ puppet? It wouldn't surprise Edward. In fact, in the way the cardinal aspired to reach for the stars and ultimate power, he could suspect he had ridden along in the plot against Jasper to grab onto even more power.

The bells chimed in the brilliant winter morning as frost covered the city like a frozen blanket, painting it a shade whiter and colder. Edward looked at the impressive sight. Many wondered when the great snows would fall. Last winter they had arrived rather quickly and forcefully. News of a white inferno in Castell had already reached some and they knew it was underway.

The prince was readying for his vigil before the grand day. He would lock himself in the vast Throne Room and spend one day and one night there in sleeplessness before his procession for the grand cathedral took its course. He would dress in modesty and bare himself before God as he processed the whole ordeal. At least, that was the general idea.

Isabella had snuck into his room with the help of a masked Carlisle and watched her husband change clothes that cold morning. Safeira had been unkind to them and not allowed them time to spend with the other. Even so, the young countess would take every moment she could to go to the prince's chambers, managing to do so only because she would tag along with whom everyone presumed to be Edward Cullen.

She'd been sitting there for a substantial amount of time, her lips pressed together, her general air subdued. Edward knew what ailed her, he knew what she wanted to ask.

He pulled the pressed linen shirt over his bare torso and turned to face her. "I knew beforehand…about your father and Victoria…that it was she who ordered the whole thing."

He suspected the look of betrayal would be instant. The Countess of Cadherra looked at him a long while, soaking in the words as the beauty of a chilly morning pressed against the windows to his chambers.

"Victoria has to pay for it all, Edward," she whispered after the long pause grew uncomfortable. She looked at him, standing in the light of the sun peeking in through his window. Each day he became more and more the royal prince and she feared she might lose her love. But she would not voice her fears.

He walked over to her, William Fell—Edward Cullen sat down next to her, took her hand in his, hesitating for a moment. They were gliding apart because of his whole masquerade. "She will stand trial for her actions once—"

Isabella shook her head and he saw her hand going instinctively to her left thigh. She always pulled that maneuver whenever she grew unsure, hesitant. He knew she hid a knife there, a knife she'd been wearing ever since Constantinople. "No trials for her, Edward," the young woman murmured, and a sadness took her over. "Not after everything she has done." She paused before continuing; as if she changed what she originally planned on saying.

"Her hate for me cost Rosalie her life." Her voice had grown thick. She took a deep breath, looking at him, suppressing her fears, her worries. A smile touched her features, a smile meant to reassure him. "Victoria cannot separate us, not even if she tried. But she does not deserve mercy or clemency."

He massaged her hand and moved in closer. He pushed a lock out of her face, looking lovingly into her chocolate orbs. "Did it feel better after Braun was killed?" he asked. Her eyes trailed down. "Did you find the peace you had been looking for?"

She hadn't, but pride would not let her reveal it to him. "Leave Victoria alive and I assure you she will get out of her prison and try and try until you are dead," she whispered.

"Do you want me, then, to sentence my own sister to her death?" he asked her. "How does that make me any different from her?"

Isabella squirmed under the implications of such an action. "I…I cannot say, Edward." A shaky sigh escaped her. "I just want her to be gone, her actions to be gone as well," she admitted with glazed eyes, fighting hard against tears threatening to spill.

He took her in his arms and let his thumb trail along her jawline, along her lips. "I love you, Isabella Swan, Isabella Cullen, Isabella Fell. I love you with all my heart, with all my strength," he told her. It provoked a sad smile with the other. "And I wish you would forget such destructive thoughts of revenge, of vendettas," he continued.

"I love you, Edward Cullen, William Fell. And I will always love you, no matter what happens." Her eyes watered as he softly kissed her, held her against himself. She shivered in his arms. They had suffered too much the past year, they wondered if there would ever be a bright future for them ahead. But in her embrace the sadness seemed to vanish, there were no worries, only her flesh against his.

He broke the kiss, only so that he might hold her lovingly, rest his cheek against hers and close his eyes as he took in her scent—floral and fresh. Like the spring.

They did not speak of the other problem that was so present. What their future would be like once the war came to pass. For if Edward now decided to let Victoria live and then tried to have William Fell turn away from the throne, the disgraced queen would do all in her power to make a comeback. Alas, if it came to it, Isabella had already given her permission—to be cast aside, such was her love to him, to love him from a distance. Alas, Edward found himself the weaker link. He could never even think the thought. It appalled him too much. He blinded himself in thinking he could have both Isabella and Angloa.

They would find a way, they had to.

"You have to go to your vigil, Edward," she sighed into his embrace. "Tomorrow they crown you king." _And take you away from me permanently_ , she thought.

He kissed the crown of her head. "Will you stay with me tonight?"

She closed her eyes. "You didn't even have to ask."

* * *

Rajac read the letter more times than he could count, falling to his knees and breaking apart at the scribbles of his wife. He grabbed at the piece of paper as if it were a lifeline anchoring him to the earth.

The man before him disregarded the crumbling man. "You have read what the letter says. You better make sure the harbor is open when we come, or Amalia Rajac suffers. 'Tis your choice, Simon," he spat before being swallowed by the backdrop of the city.

Simon Rajac sat on the cold ground for a long time, knowing he was faced with an ultimatum. When Rosalie Fell had discovered it was he who had sprinkled the poison on Isabella Swan's books, she had kept his secret, had pardoned him. And she had died—because of him.

He was so utterly torn that it made him physically ill. Rajac emptied his stomach right there on the spot, not knowing what to do. Victoria Fell wanted to invade within the fortnight and tomorrow was the grand coronation. If he had the gates to the port of Safeira opened, William Fell would most likely lose grip on the city. Did he want that? Of course not. He wanted to live in the Angloa William was building. He had trusted in him, liked him—like he had liked Rosalie. And, in the end, he had betrayed Rosalie.

Rajac folded the paper, placing his wife's words near his heart. It started dawning on him what he had to do, a grim realization but the only way out. Rajac got up on shaking legs and blinked away the tears.

 _November 26_ _th_ – _Safeira_

They all flocked to the road leading from Aldea to the grand cathedral further down the hill of Safeira. The renamed Safeirans wanted to see the crown prince make his way in his procession, catch a glimpse of the renowned man of whom everyone spoke these days.

"I hear he looks so much like his father, that those who've seen his face first thought he was a ghost!" one woman gossiped to her friends.

The other two chuckled. A little group of children, gone there with their parents, lent an ear. Gossip was the best pass-time as they had been waiting for nearly an hour, already bored.

"They say he's handsome," another one whispered to her friends. " _And_ free," she blinked.

"Really, Agatha? Do you really think he'll be paying you any attention, single you out in this throng and marry you on the spot?" a man from within the crowd laughed merrily.

"Hush, Rupert!" she snickered back before turning to her friends. "You never know what plans God might hold for you," she blinked to both women. The children who'd been listening laughed silently.

Throughout the crowd, people speculated over their new prince, and soon to be king. Many did not know him yet, did not know what to think of him. However, he hadn't given them a reason to dislike him. But if Edward Cullen vouched for him, as he had, then they supposed the crown prince couldn't be all that bad. Most inhabitants of Angloa were afraid to hope he would be different from Victoria, Jasper or even Magnus. They had suffered through almost thirty years of negligent rule or of tyranny, to some extent. Especially recently with Victoria seating the throne. They wished for William to be different, but few got their hopes up, in case they were disappointed yet again.

Earlier that morning the aristocrats and nobility had ridden through the streets in grand carriages, escorted by their guards or seating magnificent horses. The people had tried to spot a few individuals that were so talked about recently.

Many cheered when they saw Thomas Athar, who was, as always, beloved by the people. But the cheers erupted even higher at the sight of Isabella Swan and Edward Cullen when they rode down the street side by side. _They_ were the true power couple of not only the city, but probably the entire country. Their story was as widely known as common fiction or even fairy tales. And the people loved hearing it. It held the romance, the drama and adventure to satisfy most Angloans for a lifetime. Edward's rescue of Isabella was already legendary and her valiant display at the Singing Battle for Adelton Hall had spread like wildfire. Some rumored that the two had been married in secret. Alas, the people grew confused as to why the couple would hide such a thing. Others argued that there was no time for marriage—there was barely a time for the coronation; however, it was a necessary affair. Edward Cullen and Isabella Swan's marriage would have to wait.

The people knew the prince was on approach due to the loud cheers erupting from further up the street. Many stretched their neck to get a glimpse of his entourage, keen on getting to see at least something of him.

Down the broad street, among the sapphire rooftops that glistened gloriously in the morning sheen, came an ensemble of royal guards seating white horses. The clouds had started gathering somewhat in the sky and—as if by a miracle—the first snow started to fall on the morning William Fell's coronation.

Truly a good omen.

The crowd gaped as the proud white horses in all their polished finery made it down the street, with the guards sporting a silver ensemble, the armor shining brightly after a thorough polishing, the coat-of-arms of the Fell family house embossed into the front of it; a Pegasus with three crowns in a pyramid formation under it. The hooves clappered further like thunder as four guards took the front, leading the royal carriage safely through the street. The four-horse-drawn vehicle glided smoothly down the wide street, one guard on each side on a horse alongside it. It was enclosed, with the Fell coat-of-arms sculptured into each side. Parts of the carriage was gilded in gold leaf—like the coat-of-arms. Other parts were painted black, with the interior cushioned in the same velvet color.

Inside, the people could see the lone figure seated, a hand extended in a wave as he glided through, another two guards protecting the rear.

They all stretched their necks, cheering as William Fell glided by at a resolute pace. Some widened their eyes and cheered louder once they got a glimpse of the face inside. "He _does_ look like him!" some uttered loudly and more pressed toward the vehicle to get a better view. Alas, the guards were there for a reason and the people could only get so far.

Behind the carriage followed an ensemble of knights, officers, and baronets. The rest; such as the bishops and other aristocracy had already entered the confinements of the cathedral and taken their seats.

He was taken to the front of the cathedral, big fluffy snowflakes slowly painting the city white. William Fell stared at the gothic structure, the elegant arches, buttresses and towers reaching for the sky. He shivered slightly, blocking out the large crowd, looking into the still interior of that cathedral. He regarded the rose window let the light filter in like gold and illuminating his throne which awaited.

He stood there for a hesitant moment, unsure if to take that first step up the stone stairs and walk into the structure. A friendly pat on his stiff shoulder snapped him back to reality. "There is no turning back now, my friend," said Anthony Fawkes, whom the prince had appointed as the carrier for his crown. Edward Cullen was not allowed by the other lords nor even the Archbishop; the ties of ancient lineages and old aristocracy took place before anything else. It was all rituals and traditions.

The prince gave a small nod and started moving. He was thus preceded by Fawkes, carrying the crown into the cathedral, and then by Lord Irias, flanked by two other peers while the Archbishop joined the procession as well in the bishop's clothes. The prince was robed in a mantle of purple that trailed behind him, trimmed in soft ermine fur. Beneath he wore clothing in white and gold-lined textiles. His head was bare, in anticipation for the crown. And he had shaved off the ever-present stubble. William Fell was, even more, the picture of his father with the clean-shaven face and many who had known Philip got emotional at the sight of his son proceeding into the cathedral.

More nobles walked in the train behind the prince, bearing the shields of arms of their respective houses, only the dukes of the country that were present had gotten that honor. They moved inside to the sound of the exploding choir up above; which sounded like a force of nature, giving a truly heavenly air to the impressive procession. Those present looked in silent awe as the prince walked the aisle, past the onlookers, up through the choir to the stage. The music never ceasing.

Isabella was seated somewhere in the middle, the raised stands allowing several lines of onlookers a great view, one line rose higher than the previous one as the scaffolding made sure they could not miss a thing. The Countess of Cadherra was standing next to her mother as they watched the prince enter, enveloped by the powerful music that echoed against the vast interior. Her throat closed up as she saw—not the man she had come to love so much—but something else. Something grander than both him and her, something that made her soul stir, her breath rattle in anticipation. It was _grand_ , awe-inspiring to say the least.

William Fell kneeled for a prayer as the train settled behind him, as Archbishop Clarence started preparing the various proceedings that were now to follow.

He was shown to the throne and kneeled before it as various religious proceedings followed. It was tedious, difficult to remember, but he had practiced with Clarence for the past week. Lord Fawkes, taking the place as Earl Marshal, was to present the soon-to-be king to the crowd.

"My lords, my ladies, I here present King William Philip Valois Fell, your true king, to whom you have today come to do homage and service. Are you willing?" he asked the customary question.

"Long live the king!" replied the crowd loudly as it echoed through the interior. After it was done, the prince was allowed to sit next to the throne after having been accepted by the court.

The Archbishop of Maesir approached the seated prince and started giving the coronation oath. He looked at William Fell with a reassuring smile and the prince took a deep breath.

"Sire, is Your Majesty willing to take the oath?" he asked upon his approach.

"I am willing," Edward responded. The Bible was placed resting on his knee, with his right hand placed firmly above it.

"Will you swear to rule the people of this island of Angloa and the Isle of Cantabria according to their respective laws and customs?" His voice boomed strongly for a man of his age and all else was quiet as they hung on to every word.

"I solemnly swear to do so," the prince answered.

"Will you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?" Clarence asked. The ordained bishop Thorpe stood behind, now he held the crown in his hands. It was lined as well in ermine with a further lining of purple velvet within the golden crown.

"I solemnly swear to do so," he answered again.

"Will you to the utmost of your power maintain the Laws of God and the true profession of the Gospel? Will you maintain and preserve inviolably the settlement of the Catholic Church, and the doctrine, worship, discipline, and government thereof, as by law established in Angloa? And will you preserve unto the Bishops and Clergy of Angloa, and to the Churches there committed to their charge, all such rights, and privileges, as by law do or shall appertain to them or any of them?"

"All this I swear to do," Edward's voice echoed.

More followed, all a blur until he could have the crown placed onto his head. The more that was spoken, the closer he was to becoming the King of Angloa.

A white tarp was raised over the prince and his seat while Clarence prepared to anoint him. Edward saw him near with the holy oil as Lord Irias and Fawkes helped to remove the long purple mantle while he went to finally seat the Coronation Throne. A cross was made with the holy oil on his forehead while the choir sang.

The tarp was removed, and he emerged the King of Angloa. The lords present walked up to him one by one, swearing fealty to him as their king on their knees.

Edward looked straight ahead, thinking his heart might burst through the doublet. Alas, all they saw was the stoic expression plastered on his face.

Once all was sworn and said Edward saw the crown in the corner of his eye. The wind softly stirred the small bells at the top, clinking with the movement. It almost appeared otherworldly as he was crowned.

The spire rested in his left hand and the orb clutched in his right. The impact of the crown gracing his head had the audience holding their breath in silent anticipation, time slowed down, and the rose window let in the sunlight, bathing the king in a golden sheen as if the heavens themselves approved the crowning of the king.

"Long live the king!" the crowd roared, the sound emerging from the cathedral and on to the street, where the throng mimicked, chanting along. It grew to an ear-shattering sound that rolled like a wave, only stopped once the organ started playing and the bells tolled.

Edward gave the spire and orb to Thorpe and stood up.

He was now king.

* * *

King William Fell took the necessary steps to the ethereal seat, illuminated by the bright sunbeams as if heaven itself welcomed him to his throne. The lords and ladies of his court were already there and clapped as he walked up to his throne in Aldea. It was a feat, a victory.

They had their king.

Athar, despite himself, was so emotional that he thought his face would split in two. To think he would come to see such bright days again. The hope that grew within his chest, the ray of light now kindled once more only grew after so much ache and darkness. A new era dawned, an era of William, of peace, of Pax Angloa.

But as he took that throne, looking at the smiling faces, at the sea of strangers, his eyes searched for comfort. Emerald orbs scavenged for chocolate ones, for her chestnut locks that always managed to catch the sun. For the soft lips that always smiled at him. For the gentle face.

He saw her, far away in the distance. And she stood there, parted from him, next to what others considered her fiancé. Isabella Swan was not his to claim now and he felt powerless the more he looked at her. Thus, his gaze diverted back just as Lord Irias raised a glass.

"A toast, my friends," he uttered triumphantly as he turned to the now seated and crowned king. The large purple mantle had been removed. But he still bore the crown upon his head, shining brightly. All present rose their glasses and saluted their new king.

"Long live King William!" they said in unison. He saw Athar, Fawkes, Saxton, Carlisle, Jacob, Black, Irias, Raleigh, Graham, Thorpe, Alan, Quinn, and many more southerners and officers toast to his health.

And Edward's heart skipped a beat. In that hall, there was not a gloomy face. Indeed, he noticed it, the almost overbearing expectation for a better future. The hope in their eyes, the smile spreading their faces.

The snow kept falling from the scattered clouds while the sun shone. The strange weather complimented his coronation most befittingly.

Isabella saw it in his eyes then as well, the responsibility he had finally started accepting. "He seats that throne quite well, don't you think?" Carlisle whispered to her. Both rarely spoke to one another. Out of Carlisle and Jacob, Isabella was much better acquainted with the latter.

She cast him a glance, so strange to see him look like Cullen yet not be him. "He is magnificent," she said breathlessly. How could she never have seen it before? Edward would fit into this role better than anyone. She could already see it. "There can be no one else but him," she murmured.

Carlisle looked at her for a long time before promptly grabbing her hand and dragging her away from the golden hall, the bright light and out into the darkness of the corridor where that magnificent splendor did not reach them.

"What did you do that for?" she almost snapped, but then remembered herself. She straightened her back and arched an eyebrow his way.

Carlisle still looked at her, his orbs drilling holes into hers. She had never before realized how perceptive he could be. For, indeed, he was a man of few words, someone who didn't feel the need to fill the silence with unnecessary conversation.

He looked back at the entrance to the throne room and then turned to her. "You do not have to wear your mask out here," he told her. "You haven't taken a break since this morning, my lady."

It was then that she realized it. That stupid and genteel smile had grown stiff on her features. Isabella relaxed her smirk, finding her face working into a frown. At the show of her true emotions, his lips settled into a thin line.

"I do not wish to presume or overstep my boundaries. However, if you ever feel the need for a moment away from it all, Jacob and I will always be happy to help—" She put up a hand, took a deep breath and her features softened.

"We all love him, Carlisle, one way or another," she whispered. "And he does not get any breaks. Not now. Thus, we must be strong and be there for him in any way we can." She looked to the floor and then stepped closer to him and placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. "You, Jacob and I must be his support. Now more than ever."

Carlisle searched the depths of her eyes for a long time. He wore a disguise, he didn't have to work as hard as either Isabella or even Edward. The only problem for him was to make sure Carlisle Chaeld had a believable alibi for whenever he was gone for a long time. But Isabella? He figured it would be the hardest for her. To pretend he was Edward.

"Distancing yourself from him will not work, you know. He will only want to see you more. You know how stubborn he is."

"He will begin to realize that our situation doesn't have a simple solution…that we might not end up together as we thought."

He arched an eyebrow. "He would never accept that." Just as he was about to continue, someone stepped out from the throne room. It was Jacob, who walked up to them.

"He is asking where you two went," he reprimanded playfully. But when he noticed the severity and tone in the air, he furrowed his eyebrows. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, hesitantly.

"The same problem they've had since always, Jacob," Carlisle muttered.

Isabella scoffed.

"Well, it is," he defended. Jacob frowned as he realized what they were speaking of.

"Shouldn't Edward just tell the truth now?" Carlisle wondered. "I mean," he whispered, afraid of being overheard. "This whole masquerade will not end up well if he takes it further."

"Listen, do you honestly think Lord Irias or Raleigh would stay by his side after it was revealed he masqueraded and tricked them as a common soldier? And that he even went as far as having his close friend take his place whenever he had to act the prince?" she asked Carlisle. She looked further at Jacob. "You have known them better than we. Tell us, would they? Would your father?"

Jacob already knew the answer. He shook his head rather forcefully.

"We need them _all_ on our side right now. The English and Victoria have joined forces and might have the double number of soldiers we do. We cannot afford to lose even one supporter now. It would spell out the end. We all need to understand that, is that clear?" she asked them.

"There is a way, Isabella, for you two to be together. We just haven't found it yet," Jacob said with an assuring smile. "Now go in there before he comes out himself with half the court after him." Jacob neared with a conspicuous expression on his features. "When I left him, I swear half the noble ladies of the Safeira court were throwing themselves at him—"

It was enough to make Isabella arch her eyebrow. "That was in poor taste, Jacob." But she did not tarry too long until she gathered her skirts and hurried back.

Both waited a while before following her. "You know what, Carlisle?" Jacob mumbled. "I think she'd make a fine queen, don't you?" he smirked. Carlisle snickered and slapped the other across the back of his head as they returned.

 _November 29_ _th_ _– Safeira_

He had never stood alone before the prince, much less the king. Three days had passed since his coronation and William Fell had barely gotten any rest. There were powerful lords seeking him out, asking favors, wanting to be liked. He had never experienced such a thing while in his other guise. The king got so many smiles and pleasantries. Yet he knew half of them could well be scheming.

When Rajac had sought him out, he had seen it as a breath of fresh air and welcomed him into the small room where he would receive his courtiers. The tall doors closed, and Edward sighed as he waved away the royal guard, now ever-present.

Simon Rajac had stood there in an uncomfortable silence for a long time, until Edward finally spoke. "What brings you here, my Lord Rajac?" he asked the other.

Simon hung on to the crumpled letter in his hand, finding there was no air in his lungs to properly speak. He stood before the king himself, someone he looked up to. Someone whose sister he had killed. When Rosalie had found out and brought him to her, he thought his days were counted. Until she forgave him and told him to remain by her brother's side. And Rajac vowed it to himself then—that he would be loyal to King William, even if it cost him his life. And this most assuredly would.

"May I approach Your Majesty?" the tired man asked.

The king furrowed his eyebrows but inclined his head in approval. Rajac stepped up to him and handed the letter with shaking hands. Without a word William Fell opened up the folded paper and read it, his face never showing what went through his mind. With each word the king absorbed, Rajac grew to feel the defeat yet sweet release from his prison. It was over, he would be killed but maybe it would help William defeat his sister and save Amalia.

"What is this?" the strong voice boomed, yet it was calm, still charmingly pleasant to listen to. Rajac arched an eyebrow despite himself. He could not read this man, get the feel of what really went through his mind. King William must have the patience of a saint because never had he seen the monarch lash out at anyone.

"My wife, Amalia Rajac, is held prisoner by your sister. And Victoria makes her write me these letters, telling me what I must do so that the next one does not contain her severed head," he managed to utter in a strained fashion. Rajac's voice cracked slightly as he grew nauseous of that very thought.

He stared at the king on his throne, at the eerie likeness he held to his father, a strange calm overcoming him. He knew what came next, yet he was not afraid to die, not if it meant having told this man the truth.

"I got another such letter in Cadherra, but that one was written in blood," he shook. "Presumably hers."

Edward grew disgusted with his sister. For despite Victoria's true love for their sister, her mind was no doubt twisted and sick. "And what did _that_ letter demand?" he asked slowly, growing increasingly anxious at what the answer might be.

Rajac swallowed hard but rose his dark eyes to meet the king's forest greens. "It sent a powder and instructions to sprinkle them on the pages of Lady Isabella Swan's books."

He waited for the king to lash out at him, so scream for the guards and have him arrested.

"You were the one who poisoned Isabella and Rosalie," the king mumbled, rather to himself than to Rajac.

It was now that tears of shame escaped Rajac as he went down to his knees. "Sire, my actions cost your sister Rosalie her life, and it almost cost Lady Swan hers. I am prepared to take responsibility for the selfish actions I committed. Your sister pardoned my life when she found out, and I wanted to relay this message of this attack on Safeira before I surrender to you."

The king eyed him for a long time. Too long, Rajac thought. Where were the guards? He had come to terms that he would be thrown into the darkest dungeons of Aldea.

William Fell stood up after a while, his seat creaking as he did so, his steps heavy when he walked up to Rajac. He stared at him for a long while, the letter resting in his hands. "Simon Rajac," he struggled to say, struggled to remain calm and collected, for he was boiling inside. "My sister's final wish was that you were not to be harmed, that you were to be left alone. I will not defile that by having you tortured, executed or cast into a dungeon," he said, the words slow out of his mouth, seeping out in a restrained manner. Rajac heard the anger and sadness beneath the surface. Yet, he could not believe his ears.

"Sire, I—"

"But I want you out of my city, Rajac. I do not wish to see you anymore." He squeezed the letter further in his hand and Rajac saw the burning embers within the green orbs, wondering where he had seen such a gaze before. "I hereby banish you from my court, from Safeira." The king wrinkled his nose. "Remove yourself from my sight, Rajac."

Simon stumbled, it was almost worse to be simply cast aside than killed. He knew he had dishonored himself, he simply did not wish to believe he would escape with his life. "A-allow me to serve you in this war, at least. And when you win, you may do with me as you wish—"

"I will not have the man who poisoned my sister within my sight. Be grateful I allowed you to leave with your life. And if I win this, you will take your wife Amalia with you and remove yourself from these lands."

Simon swallowed hard, shaking, not knowing how to react. He gave the king a stiff nod, the other had turned his back on him. Thus, Simon bowed. "I am grateful for your benevolence, Your Majesty," he said in the low bow.

"It is my sister you should be grateful to," he heard the other say. Simon straightened himself. He would wait to see what happened, hoping he could somehow still help in this matter and get his Amalia back.

Edward heard him disappear and walked over to the side pushing down a heavy piece of furniture in frustration. He wished he had not promised Rosalie he'd spare her killer. That man had cost his sister her life and nearly Isabella's.

He squared his jaw, maybe he wasn't apt to be king after all.

* * *

 **A/N: To keep the promise of having the story completed before Christmas (which we celebrate on the 24th here in Sweden), I'll be publishing rather more frequently. Good right?**

 **You finally get the coronation scene! I have had this scene pictured in my mind ever since I started this story. I had this plot all figured out and was writing my way to make this finally happen! I went to London this summer and visited The Tower (If you didn't yet know, I'm a history freak!) I spent 5 hours there, by myself haha. I saw THE crown jewels. It was amazing :D And, in general, they did inspire me a little for this story, to further develop it. I also love "The Crown" and her coronation scene also inspired this scene. In fact, when Clarence gives William/Edward the oath, I actually borrowed it from the real coronation of Elizabeth II, although I scaled it down a little. Too many details and oaths, and sayings etc that we don't need to include haha. I hope you enjoyed it. I'll try to have chapter 29 up asap :D**

 **Thank you for the reviews for chapter 27, I hope you enjoyed this one as well!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	29. Chapter 29

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 29_

 _March 24_ _th_ _, 1521 – Safeira_

Four months of campaigning had passed. The winter had started growing harsh right after the king's coronation. But Victoria Fell had still kept to her plan. However, Safeira was prepared thanks to Rajac's warning. King William showed his assuredness and calm before his first siege and foiled the small armada which was meant to capture his city. Within two weeks the ships pulled back and Safeira cheered.

It wasn't long after that when William Fell decided it was time to meet Victoria in the field. For if they waited out the winter, she would have claimed more parts of Angloa. The north was already hers. They needed to push her back before the first kiss of spring greeted them.

With a heavy heart—knowing it would separate him from his love—he divided the vast army into two smaller but more effective ones. King William would, together with Lord Irias and Fawkes command the main army of thirteen thousand men that would take ships up the coastline and push Victoria back from the north.

Edward Cullen—Carlisle Chaeld in the guise of his friend— together with Emmett Saxton would claim a smaller army of neigh six thousand that would sneak up on Victoria from the south and start claiming back Alban and the range.

Thus, the campaign began. Edward and Isabella said their goodbyes in February as she, together with Athar, would travel to Adelton Hall. William wanted his main advisors separated in case something happened. Glovendale would stay and watch over Safeira together with Graham. And, of course, no one knew of the scheme Lord Graham and Cardinal Thorpe were plotting. Clarence of Maesir would retire back to his palace and not worry much over the future as he had played his part.

Slowly but steady, William's forces started reclaiming the north. Together with Fawkes, Irias, Raleigh, Billy, and Jacob Black they retook Castell in a matter of days and sunk the English ships. The king did not openly showcase his strategical wit, but rather pushed his generals in the right direction without them much knowing it. As the months grew colder and colder, the king's forces etched their way into the threatening army of the queen. They lost a few battles here and there but managed to claim back the land. Those who had survived the harsh claims of their towns by Victoria were sent to Adelton for refuge. Many of the men wished to stay behind and fight for their homes, leaving their elder, women, and children behind. The Countess of Cadherra welcomed hundreds upon hundreds with open arms and the inhabitant of Hayes opened up their homes for those fleeing from the north. Soon Cadherra housed all the victims of Victoria's pillage across the northern countryside.

The goal was, of course, to reclaim Wessport. For it was the ultimate stronghold of the queen. From there she ruled what was left of her little kingdom. She did not follow her army like William did his. She left that to Percy Beauchamp and Matthew Alistair.

The intrigue displaying itself in Safeira, however, was the most pressing one. March reached its end and Lord Glovendale had been missing for neigh two weeks. The king had been alerted but Thorpe did not believe he would travel back merely to address the disappearance of such a man. The cardinal was satisfied, smug even. He knew Lord Graham was behind Lord Glovendale's absence. It was one more nuisance removed. Next came Lord Athar, who they would wash away from Adelton Hall. And slowly their tendrils would extend. His alliance with the steward of Safeira worked very much to his advantage.

Thorpe sat one cold March afternoon staring out at the thawing, muddied, and melting fields. Spring was but a whisper away, and he figured that, by the end of summer, Angloa would be ruled by King William. Thorpe would stand by his side, the ultimate confidant and advisor to the king. And he would have enough power to claim a presence in the Vatican. His eyes hungered as he realized he was coming closer and closer to his political goals.

Graham had come to sit with him, pointing to the wine. "That is a fine vintage you have there, Your Eminence," he said as he had poured a cup and tried it. "What are you celebrating?"

Thorpe smirked as he downed the cup. "The joys of life," he chuckled.

"Has His Eminence yet seen the throne room in closer detail?" the steward asked with a smile. Thorpe shook his head, but the idea of being in that room, alone, as if it was already his, greatly pleased him.

"I have been meaning to visit it," Thorpe mused as he got up. Lord Graham followed him as they ventured back into Aldea, into the royal palace, and moved their way past servants and guards until they reached the throne room. Graham would seat a small chair next to the throne whenever the king was away and receive the citizens of Safeira as the steward. He would listen to their qualms, solve disputes and take care that the city remained calm.

"Have you ever seen its equal?" Graham asked.

Thorpe smirked. "This room, my friend—" Thorpe said smugly. "—is but a façade for the people; is but a stage where the puppet-master pulls the strings." Thorpe turned, his red robes invasive in the elegant room, his small eyes squinting in joy. "Which we will."

He had grown comfortable speaking his mind with Graham, as Graham had with him. They would often speak of the future of Angloa where both would be powerful men, where both would enjoy the control they would soon have over King William. Alas, no one stopped to think that William might not let himself be manipulated.

"Your Eminence might wish to feel the true authority of this room then," Graham blinked as he pointed at the throne. "Sitting up there gives one a tremendous rush of power," he whispered. "I must confess that now that the king is gone, and when I find myself alone in this room, I sometimes sit on that throne, just to know what it feels like."

Thorpe was already a bit affected by the alcohol. However, the doors were closed, and no one would dare disturb the steward and the cardinal. Thus, without any worry, he walked up the steps and seated the throne. Graham arched an eyebrow and smiled.

Thorpe got comfortable looking down at Graham, feeling the rush of power, that addictive sensation he always urged to have. It was more intoxicating than the wine working its way into his belly.

"Tell me," he asked. "How did you manage?"

"Manage what?" Graham asked back.

"Don't be coy, my lord."

A smirk spread on the features of the steward. "You will have to be specific, Your Eminence, there are many things I've done which require some reminding. You see, I try to ignore them most of the time."

In any other circumstance, Thorpe would have been careful. Seating the throne so carelessly, openly speaking of their plot to murder Glovendale—it was all rather dangerous. But as the king distanced himself more and more from Safeira, Thorpe had grown brave to do as he wished. And he said truthfully what he wanted from Graham, not masking the words nor twisting them.

"How did you kill him?"

"Kill who? There are many who have perished by my hand, Your Eminence," Graham said.

Thorpe sighed. "How did you manage to kill Glovendale?"

Graham smiled. "Well, I would never have managed without your brilliant scheming, Your Eminence."

"Do not flatter me boy, when old age starts getting to you, and experience stacks up, you know what to do."

He waited for Graham to say in what diabolic way Glovendale had perished. But as time floated by, Graham straightened up and remained silent. His smile slowly waned away. It was if a mask had melted to show Graham's true feelings.

"You know, I hear you were the one who instigated Victoria to poison Lady Swan," he said in a low voice.

Thorpe grew confused. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Suddenly the throne room grew threatening to him; the sunbeams washing away to the enigmatic tension that wrapped its tendrils around the columns. "I know for a fact that you did, Your Eminence. For my servants overheard you telling her," Graham said, walking closer to the throne. "Do you deny it?"

Thorpe grew confused, standing up. Why this sudden shift in mood, why this sudden strange behavior? "What does it matter if I did?" he asked.

"And did you pressure her to have Jasper Fell executed as well?" Graham asked.

Now Thorpe started realizing what Graham was doing and got angry. "My lord, you are committing a grave mistake if you think you can threaten me." He stood up from the throne and hastened down to come face to face with the lord, a smirk lining his features. "It seems to upset you if I do not mistake myself. Might I presume you knew one or both of them?"

Graham growled slightly as he gritted his teeth. "Say what you will about Jasper, but he was a kind man who did his best with what he had."

Thorpe smirked, the smug expression enough to make Graham want to punch him. "Indeed, _I_ told Victoria she _had_ to execute Jasper, or she'd be removed instantly from her throne. _I_ planted the seed that Isabella Swan should be killed. I did not plan for Rosalie to die, nor this mess to come of it." Thorpe seemed rather satisfied with himself.

Graham looked at him with utter disgust, his nose wrinkled, his eyes growing darker by the moment. And, indeed, the cardinal was so utterly assured of his influence and power even now that he did not fear the rift he had created between himself and Graham. He would merely make the steward disappear after the grave mistake he had just committed. Graham should not have challenged him thus.

Alas, steps echoed from one side of the vast room.

Moving their way.

"It would seem, Your Eminence, that the _king_ needs to be informed," another voice suddenly spoke out from further down in the vast room.

Thorpe visibly paled and his smile quickly dropped as he turned around. He saw the youthful vigor present in the green eyes despite his age. The graying goatee was neatly combed in place, as was the graying hair. Theodor Glovendale walked up to both men with somber steps. Thorpe gritted his teeth and turned from Graham to Glovendale.

"No, Thorpe, I am no ghost. I am very much alive," Glovendale said as he stopped right before the cardinal. "Do you _really_ believe it would be that easy to remove me: an ambassador working in Rome for the past twenty years?"

Thorpe backed away. He looked at Graham and started realizing it. "You were never going to…to—" but he stopped himself before saying the damning words. Thorpe had spoken out his plans, and Glovendale had heard all his sins. He had just given evidence of his conspiracy.

"It seems you are due for confession, Cardinal," Glovendale smirked. "Apparently, you have played a larger part in this conflict than I previously believed. But, of course, I am not surprised. I do wonder how His Majesty will react."

Thorpe gathered his wits. "This conversation will not leave this room. I will make sure you are both buried before the day is over—"

If Thorpe had been surprised before, he was nearly knocked to his feet at what came next.

The sound of rustling armor echoed as the royal guard pushed into the room, surrounding the three men and aimed their drawn swords at Thorpe. "I am afraid your little scheming has come to an end, Thorpe," Glovendale continued. He had long savored this moment. Since before going into hiding at Aldea. Glovendale had wanted this ever since he had seen what type of man Thorpe was back in Rome.

Slowly but surely the cardinal realized everything was meticulously planned. Everything was in place. This was not a simple coincidence. The guards had been waiting, this was a set-up from the start. His small black eyes drifted to Graham with such hatred that he thought he would burst.

Graham turned to him. "I knew what you were the moment I saw you, Thorpe. And no man in his right mind would ever ally himself with you. You would stab me in the back as soon as I turned around." Graham closed in and arched an eyebrow. "I told you from the moment we first spoke after Victoria's departure: I look out for _my_ well-being. And that means having you in chains."

Thorpe growled in anger at having been bested by the younger, more pompous man. He had spent decades playing the game, and he had just been bested by a lowly ambassador and a steward.

"The king will not lend his ear to you once I get to speak with him!" Thorpe raged, thinking he might still be able to twist William Fell against them.

Again, a set of footsteps echoed in the throne room of Aldea. These were heavier, containing more poise to them, the feeling of doom emanating from their clash upon the marble floor.

"Not likely, Thorpe," came a strong, velvety voice and it was enough to make Thorpe lose the rest of the color in his face.

He saw the very king himself come forward in a steadfast pace, his step certain, his gaze fixed on the cardinal. He walked past the soldiers and stepped up to him.

Edward had taken a short break in his campaign against Victoria to make sure Thorpe was cast into the dungeons himself. The king stared at the cardinal with his harsh eyes and arched an eyebrow. A look of contained amusement touched the handsome features of William Fell.

"Your Majesty, I can explain—" the cardinal squeaked.

One look from the monarch was all it took to silence the cardinal momentarily. Thorpe worked out every possible resource he might use to get out from his predicament. He went over ways to get the king alone, to twist him to his favor. He went over ways he might escape and travel back to Victoria or Rome. But he saw himself surrounded, his spies and servants probably having been taken in as well.

And as Cardinal Thorpe, Ordained Bishop of Wessport, realized he might lose his life, he fell to his knees defeated, truly afraid for his life. For when it came to standing before justice himself, he held the courage of a small boy.

"S-sire!" he exclaimed on his knees. "These men are poisoning you against me, twisting your mind away from the truth. They are fickle and should not be listened to. Just like Edward Cullen does not want the best for you, just like Lord Athar schemes against you! If you would just speak with me privately, I could tell you what this is all about—"

William Fell remained stoic, yet some disgust managed to etch its way onto his face. The king stepped in closer, motioning for the others to give them space. He bent down so that he could whisper in Thorpe's ear, smirking satisfied, with a glint of danger to his eyes. "I hope you like kneeling, Thorpe, for it'll be something you will have to get used to from now on," the cardinal heard the familiar growl whisper into his ear.

Thorpe instantly recognized the insult he had delivered unto General Cullen so many months ago. He recognized the voice, the dangerous sparkle in those eyes. And then—thinking he must have been blind not to see it before—he recognized those forest green orbs.

Thorpe started shaking as his eyes almost popped out of his head when he realized Edward Cullen and William Fell were somehow the same person. And the moment Edward had obtained enough power in Safeira, he must have made sure Graham was under his control, working in his favor together with Glovendale. The general and the king had beaten him at his own game. Thorpe suddenly realized he could never have twisted the king—not when the same was the goddamned Lion of the North, commander of all those armies, Filed Marshal—someone who belonged on the battlefield and who had seen his true colors in Rome. Thorpe realized he had just lost then and there, and he started sobbing like a small child, begging for mercy.

"Cardinal Johannes Finneas Thorpe, I hereby proclaim you a traitor to the crown, strip you of your possessions and sentence you to be cast into the dungeons until further action can be taken against you, until a court of law can determine the extent of your sentence," the king spoke as his voice echoed within the room. William Fell regarded the cardinal who wobbled on his knees. "I might have been more lenient if you hadn't sat on _my_ throne," the king smirked, so utterly satisfied with the whole situation, reveling in the horrible expression of defeat and fear on Thorpe's features. The king looked at him in a disgusted manner. "Throw him in a cell," he spat.

The rest wondered what he had whispered in Thorpe's ear to provoke such a reaction. They dared not ask. The king turned to Graham. "I am grateful you played your part so well, my lord Graham."

The other smiled and bowed. "As am I that you came here yourself to make sure he was cast into the dungeons."

Glovendale chuckled. "I have never been so satisfied at seeing a man on his knees before. I will never forget this day for the rest of my life. Your Majesty," he turned to the king. "You have removed the leech from your inner circle. Now it is time to clean up the rest of the country. You may leave here with the knowledge that Safeira is now safe from his clutches once and for all.

 _March 29_ _th_ _– Wessport_

"Thorpe has been removed, cast into the dungeons," one of her barons said, averting her dangerous gaze. The queen mindlessly drummed her nails along the armrest of her chair. Alistair and Beauchamp were still away, fighting off the pretender. But her blood boiled at what he had done to Thorpe—a man who might have come into use if she could have whisked him to her own court.

Victoria grew more and more frustrated with each passing day, realizing she would lose if nothing was done quickly. And, indeed, only one thing could be done once and for all. There was still one final play, one final ace up her sleeve that could weaken William's armies. And there was one person in particular that irked her to such an extent that she wanted nothing more than to see them perish.

"Call on Alistair, have him journey down to Adelton Hall."

"My queen?" the baron, Lord Burey, asked as he paled. "Did he not try to claim the castle once?"

Victoria's lips thinned. "King William is reported to still remain outside of Safeira, but he did not bring his whole army from the northern front. Even if the news reaches him, there is little he can do. Edward Cullen is occupied with our armies on the eastern front. He cannot leave his men to save her again."

"We gain little claiming Adelton Hall, Your Majesty. If you send Alistair with his army, we may lose the hold we have on the northwest. And William Fell's forces will approach Wessport faster. We might want to think of regrouping the three branches into one strong and united army—"

"Burey, you have never even seen battle, that is why you cower here," Victoria purred. "Now be a good man and send my message."

"If I may, Your Majesty…there are _other_ ways of eliminating Lady Swan," the baron said. It was no secret of the queen's hatred for the young woman who so openly defied her.

Victoria arched an eyebrow. "I will not try to poison her again, Burey. She dies by the sword, with blood soiling that pretty little face of hers. And it is a message to any other aristocrat out there who has spoken ill of me; as she has. Isabella Swan will pay, and it will throw Edward Cullen off. The rest may not want to admit it, but he is the backbone in William's army. The men follow the Lion of the North, not that pretender. And once he leaves because he lost his love, I will reclaim my rightful place as sole ruler here." She rose to stand, so spurred by her own words, her own growing madness. "And mark my words Burey," the mad queen said as she walked toward the door, heading for her quarters. "That pretender will suffer and die a painful death." The baron grew pale at her words, shook the more she spoke.

She turned in the opened door, arching a delicate eyebrow. "Well?"

"I-I will send the message to Alistair at once, Your Majesty," he stuttered and noticed the satisfied smirk lacing her features as she closed the door shut.

 _April 3_ _rd_ _– Flatlands, Eastern Sorossa by the sea._

It was only for a moment he had managed to slip into the guise. William Fell had come with his small company of three thousand men to check on Edward Cullen. And it was an apt time for the king to get a breather. He had donned the mask as soon as he'd been able to get into Carlisle's tent. The moment his face disappeared into it, he had stepped out and walked amongst his fellow soldiers. He'd sat down with some, broken bread with them and recalled previous battles. In a sense, it was something he missed. And it was something he couldn't do anymore as king. Indeed, for the soldiers could not possibly have their king next to them, they were not dignified enough, they thought. And William Fell did not _understand_ battle as they did.

But Cullen did.

It was great just being a normal soldier with Jacob and Carlisle sitting next to him, laughing and retelling stories of old, not having the weight of monarchy resting on his shoulders.

It was afternoon when a messenger rushed to his tent. Saxton himself delivered the letter and Edward read it, his eyes widening further as he read the lines.

"What does it say?" asked the proud Sorossan lord.

He saw the masked general stumble, not quite certain of what to do. "I…I…" Edward found no words and panicked as he looked up from the parchment to his friends. He opened and closed his mouth several times. Emmett had never seen him lose his footing in such a way before. It had to be serious.

"Should we inform His Majesty?" asked Emmett.

Edward paid him little heed. The masked man had turned his back to them and leaned against the table. They saw his tensed state as a million thoughts rushed through his head. But they could not yet understand the utter panic he was experiencing. He looked up and started pacing, briefly casting a glance Emmett, Carlisle, and Jacob's way. After a while, he cast the letter aside and headed straight for the opening of the tent, not paying them any attention. He needed to breathe in the fresh April air, lest he went crazy.

Emmett looked at the other two and then back at the masked general. "What is this about?" he asked Jacob and Carlisle. The latter picked up the small piece of paper and read it, also several times as his eyes widened.

"This letter was smuggled out by Amalia Rajac…Victoria is sending Alistair to retake Adelton. And I believe this time he aims to take out Isabella as well."

The others went quiet, now understanding the shock those words had brought their friend. But Jacob and Carlisle realized how much it had to be breaking Edward apart realizing the difficulty in him going there.

"We…need to ask the king to lend us the men he brought from the north," Saxton mumbled, scratching his head. "I could take charge of the army…Edward should go." It was expected of the general, that he rushed to his lover's side.

"Edward cannot go," Carlisle mumbled, still loud enough for Emmett to hear. The latter furrowed his brow.

"Of course he can," he answered heftily. "He cannot just leave her for the enemy to claim Adelton."

"No, of course not." How could Emmett understand? Maybe it was an apt time to reveal the secret. But they couldn't do so without asking Edward first. He cast a glance at Jacob and furrowed his brow.

"I'll talk to him," Jacob sighed after a while. He had always been better at dealing with the masked man in matters concerning Isabella. "You should start gathering the men who came with His Majesty—"

"Shouldn't we at least communicate this to His Majesty?" Saxton intercepted.

Carlisle and Jacob shifted a little. "Speak with him once you are done talking to Edward," Carlisle told his friend. "Will you help me gather the bannermen, Emmett?" Carlisle asked the man he'd been fighting side by side with for the past few months. He took great care in not showing too much familiarity. He also made sure his voice was a few octaves higher, and that his mannerisms didn't resemble those he'd had when masked.

"Of course," Emmett said. The three of them left the tent and caught a glimpse of the masked man, standing atop a small hill looking southwest, where Adelton Hall was beyond the forest. It wasn't far away. Jacob made his way up to Edward, to try to convince him that he should leave Isabella's rescue to him and Carlisle.

Jacob noted the tense stance, the clenched fists and locked gaze as he walked up to him. There was a determinedness in those green orbs he was very familiar with.

"I cannot abandon her, Jacob," the masked man whispered.

"I know," Jacob answered. "I know, Edward." His friend turned to face him and never before had he seen a man as torn as him.

* * *

Carlisle and Saxton were further down the camp, getting the soldiers in formation when another messenger reached them from the west. Neither knew where it came from, if from Raven's Grove or if from Wessport. The panicked look in his eyes did not bode well.

"My lords!" he exclaimed as he got to them, upon closer look, Saxton saw that it was one of his scouts positioned in Raven's Grove.

"What news, Timmy!" Emmett urged.

"An army heading to Raven's Grove further west. I think it means to go for Adelton Hall!" he said in a panicked voice.

Carlisle and Saxton widened their eyes. How was Alistair this quick? They had to act fast, or he would reach the castle before they had a chance to establish themselves there to defend it.

 _April 4_ _th_ _– Cadherra_

"Gather what is left of their supplies from Hayes. Have the upper castle servants help with the villagers as they come. And Roderick," she said without turning. The Countess of Cadherra stormed down the hall of her castle in a determined and resolute pace, on her way to the armory. News of an approaching force heading their way had reached them just an hour before.

"Yes, my lady," the man answered.

"I will need an account of every able-bodied man in the castle. Speak with Lord Quinn about where they could best serve. If anyone, he is the most apt for it," she continued. When Roderick kept trailing her and her group, the woman stopped dead in her tracks with an irritated look on her features. "That means _now_ , Roderick!" she said forcefully, enough to make him dart the other way.

Isabella Swan continued to the armory in her quick pace. But never once did she hasten into a run. She would not be seen panicked by the inhabitants of her castle. Not now. If they saw her fear or falter, they would lose hope.

And there was no hope left to lose.

"Where did Lord Athar go to?" she asked as she stopped in front of the armory.

"To the same place you thought to go, Lady Swan," a pleasant voice echoed. Isabella saw the aged man standing, accompanied by Alice, waiting outside the armory. "I thought it best to await your arrival. It is your castle, after all."

Isabella arched an eyebrow Alice's way until she redirected her gaze to meet Athar. "Half the castle was looking for you when we got the news." Mrs. Hammond, now promoted to keeper of the keys, unlocked the armory. They had only a small force, not merely enough to face the army moving their way. They were lucky that Emmett Saxton had taken care in posting a few scouts in the middle and edge of the forest. The men had ridden the moment they caught sight of the soldiers and Victoria's banner flapping in the wind.

"I am here now, Isabella," he smiled. Keeping calm himself and thus calming Isabella down, despite perhaps not knowing it.

They opened the door and saw, to their dismay, that there were not nearly enough swords, arrows, muskets, fodder or ammunition to last them even a week besieged.

Isabella stared at the too-empty room with her lips pressed together. "Let us hope they bring with them some useful gear from Coldwick," the countess murmured under her breath. She turned to her friend and now confidant. "Alice, go to the stables, have them send another rider to Coldwick _immediately_ and tell them to bring more weapons—to bring as much as they are able."

"My lady, should we write—"

" _Now_ , Alice!" Isabella exclaimed. "Every second we spend speaking, discussing, _writing_ , is a second wasted. Make haste, please," she ordered. For indeed it was an order. Affirmative, decisive.

Alice ran as fast as her legs could carry her and Athar eyed Isabella Swan. "My lady, let us rejoin in the old throne room. Have the others come and regroup. We all need come together," he said.

Isabella looked at him, turned to look at her servants. "Mrs. Hammond," she stepped up to the old housekeeper, now promoted to keeper of the entirety of Adelton Hall ever since the Chamberlain had left. "I need you to take care of the refugees from Hayes and the northerners living there; just like last time. I know I can count on you."

Mrs. Hammond was white as a sheet but did not wish to disappoint her lady. "Indeed, my lady. You _can_ count on me," she stuttered.

It wasn't long until they found themselves in the vastness that was the throne room. In a circle, they all stood. Isabella's back faced the throne.

"Most of you are already aware what lurks on the edge of Raven's Grove. What awaits in our near future. It is a future Adelton has seen before." Lord Athar had gathered Lord Quinn, Alan Moore and a few of the southern lords who had not gone out campaigning with William Fell or Edward Cullen. Two of them were Tyris and Wilson from Sorise.

"The only reason Victoria Fell is diverting her army here is because she has a bone to pick with you, Lady Swan," Lord Wilson spat.

Isabella was glad neither her mother nor Edward were there to hear the malice in his tone. She ignored his remark and kept speaking to the rest. "We have sent messages to Coldwick, where, in case anything like this happened, some of their guards and soldiers would come to defend us. The villagers from Hayes, the refugees from the north, and any other farms in the close vicinity will enter the castle for refuge. Every able-bodied man will assist in keeping us safe, as it was during the last siege." She looked out over the somber faces.

"Her ladyship and I will remain alerted to any further news, my lords," Athar filled in. It was easier to have him support her on the sideline. For there were not all there present who would idly obey the words of a young woman, however noble she may be.

"Lord Athar," Lord Tyris said as he turned to the older man. "You should take charge here. Lady Swan is not equipped to handle this situation—"

Before Athar could defend her, Isabella spoke up. "My lords, could I offer you words of encouragement, I would. If we work together, this will be a lot easier. But the truth of the matter is that thousands of men once more march upon Adelton Hall and will reach here before the end of the day. And this time we cannot expect any help from any General Cullen or His Majesty," she uttered as truthfully as she could. The pause that followed was not only tense, but it was also intertwined with fear. She could smell it on some of them. "We stand alone, my lords, but I will _not_ surrender this castle. Those men who come here—on the orders of a madwoman who had her own sister killed—will not find us cowering." Her jaw set, the young woman stared at them determined. "You choose. Either you cast aside your pride; you let me, a woman, dictate what I _know_ is best for the defense of the people within this castle, or you leave my grounds," she added rather forcefully.

Tyris had started blushing at her forward remark.

"Lord Quinn, I leave the charge of offense to you." She was about to leave, followed by an amused Athar when she turned in the doorway and faced Quinn. "Do not open the gates this time, if you please, my lord."

The sound of her heels echoed in the hectic hallways as the whole castle scurried to prepare for the impending doom. "You didn't have to be so hard on them," Athar said as he tailed after her.

"I refuse to let anyone tell me what to do or how to feel. This isn't about their pride anymore and you know that."

"You never know when they could turn on you, Isabella. That is all I am saying," he added.

Isabella stopped once more and sighed in defeat, turning around to face the much older man. "I know you have lived at court longer than I—have played the game of intrigue much longer than I." She nodded fervently as she spoke to show that she agreed with him. "You do hold much more experience than I do, my friend. And I will never suppose that I am wiser than you could ever be."

Athar rose an eyebrow. "I sense a _however_ finding its way into this delightful conversation," his rich voice chuckled in a deadpan.

Isabella still remained stern as she stepped in closer. He saw the seriousness in her eyes, the sharp twinge of adrenaline and fire. "This isn't the tranquilities of Wessport anymore, Athar. This is _war_. There is another man in my life from whom I have learned a great deal when it comes to these situations," she stated. "In battles like these, it is all very simple and straightforward. In that field, there are two sides trying to end each other. It doesn't matter what spurs them. What matters is the strategy, the planning, the advantages each side takes. We will be prepared when they come. And we will show them that we are prepared. Nothing puts the other side off like seeing their enemy facing them head-on."

"And Edward simply told you all this? I never knew him to be such an avid conversationalist when it came to battle and strategy. Especially not with…erhm…women."

She could not help but smirk despite the gravity of their situation. "Well, we women are good observers and listeners, my lord."

* * *

By the time daylight left them, Adelton Hall waited while holding its breath. They all believed there would be no help. They did not expect it. Many were taken back to the last time Victoria had sent her army to take them down.

This time it was different.

As the forces neared the castle with the walls secured by archers and men from Coldwick, Isabella knew that there would be no force in Adelton that could stop those men before they entered her castle. Victoria had given her a promise: she would take her home. But Isabella would die before she let her set one foot in Adelton Hall. The queen had already soiled Wessport with her presence, she would not let her touch the beauty of Cadherra as well.

The hours passed, and thousands of men could be heard in the forest, the first wave already approaching the castle. This time there was more structure and two flanks headed for her with siege towers. Before long, cannons sparked and shook the structure as the fodder collided with the stone. Adelton was not built for cannons, nor built for the more modern equipment they had brought with them. Grimly she realized they would probably not last even a day.

But she did not let the fear show. The Countess of Cadherra stood next to Lord Quinn and Lord Athar on the top wall with the archers. The soldiers looked to her, to see her reaction. Her determined expression, her stern face and unforgiving bearing made them think they might get away unscathed—that they might manage this. In the way she bore herself, so unforgiving and determined before the vast army, some felt as though a part of Edward Cullen stood on that wall with them, present in Isabella Swan.

But Lord Athar and Quinn knew the reality. As did Isabella. The armored soldiers waiting for the clear to storm their walls had all hearts aflutter, hers included.

Isabella would not keep to the Palas this time, hiding with the wounded. Edward was gone fighting, and she was now to represent the owner of the castle. She had to raise morale.

"Lord Quinn, I trust you to take charge," she said grimly as they watched the wave approach, watching the shouting men run for their walls once the cannons had seized.

"This time I _will_ _not_ let Adelton be taken," he growled as he stared at them, growing fierce as well.

They prepared their archers. "Archers!" Quinn shouted in a commanding voice. "Knock," he uttered with as much force he could muster. The arrows would only slow them down momentarily. The archers did as he bade. "Draw." Some had older bows dating at least a half century back. Others held crossbows that could reach further. Those with pistols or muskets prepared their weapons as well. Quinn held his breath, waiting for the perfect moment. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he would find himself again at that same castle; but fighting for the other side.

"Release!" he screamed atop his lungs.

The shower flew elegantly in an arch through the sky, the firearms exploded and released their smoke. They never saw how many they had hit before Quinn ordered them once more to reload.

Isabella stared as men fell like flies, stared as a shower of bullets came their way, killing her own soldiers. She stood rooted in her place, finally noticing one individual in the enemy army.

"Damn him!" she hissed under her breath.

Lord Athar followed her gaze and narrowed his eyes as he caught sight of the much-hated lord. "Alistair," he spat as well.

"That man never gives up," she murmured to herself.

But she realized that this time he might actually succeed in his endeavor. Alistair could very well manage in taking Adelton Hall for himself—as he had always wanted.

Some of his soldiers had already managed to climb their walls and a fight atop the structure now emerged. "My lady we should get you to a more secure location," Athar whispered in her ear.

She turned to him, her eyebrows furrowed together. "Where to, Athar? Wherever I go here, Alistair or his soldiers will find me, and you know what they will do with me. Victoria made that explicitly clear when she was here. I'd rather remain next to you all here than cower in my rooms," she told him. "If you wish to leave, I will not fault you for it, my old friend."

His lips thinned. Maybe her dying with them by the sword was better than what would otherwise happen. Her breath hitched in her throat as she realized she would probably lose her life. She reached for her peach-colored skirts and took out Zoráida's knife, the Damascus blade catching the glint of the flickering torches amidst the screams and clashing of steel.

She knew they would probably not last the night.

* * *

Carlisle rode with his thousand men as quickly as he could. Even in the distance, they could hear the sound of the battle raging on. It was just like last time when Edward and he had arrived with their army. Alas, it was so different now. For, indeed, they were greatly outnumbered more than two to one.

They needed to plan this well.

He had rushed out of camp, sparing little time for thought and more for action. There had been no time to think things over. He suspected Edward and Jacob would come down from within Raven's Grove and attack the thick of Alistair's forces with their own small army of a thousand men. Carlisle would ride from the south and intercept them at the mouth of the forest. But he realized he was late. A thousand men were already upon Adelton once they came closer.

He regrouped the platoon, quickly chatted with his officers and developed a plan. It would be a daring one, but if he timed it well with Edward—trusting that the seasoned general could handle the bulk of Alistair's men—they might come out victorious.

Carlisle would attack the mouth of the forest as he had planned, but as soon as there was a sign of Edward arriving, he'd move his men to defend the castle—wipe out the enemy there and then double back to defeat the enemy from the high ground, with Adelton Hall guarding their backs.

And so it went. The darkness of night managed to block out the ghastly sight of thousands of men killing each other. Isabella and the inhabitants of Adelton Hall heard it.

They had not even paused to breathe the moment the foreign army had come from the southwest, most likely having come out from another area further down the forest.

They were still being mauled atop the walls.

Finally, sounds of a battle could be heard from within Raven's Grove and it was Carlisle's signal. Edward had come with Jacob, he could not move to the castle. Carlisle Chaeld came thus up with his thousand men from behind, like a fierce wave. They managed to take out the siege towers with fire, lessening the pressure Alistair's forces put on Adelton.

And their small victories on the field made the soldiers and spectators fighting for their lives atop the walls shout out in pure joy. Now there was hope. The soldiers atop the wall fought harder and fiercer than ever before as they realized they might make it out alive. One minute felt like a lifetime as it ticked by. An hour was infinite. The whole night seemed like it would never end.

As the first beams of the sun spilled over the horizon, coupled with the clouds gathering in the sky, they started realizing they might win the battle.

Carlisle sensed the chill hitting the air, the cold having settled amidst the grime, sweat, and blood of their battle. If he stopped, he would shiver, the stank sweat and the steel of his armor coupled with his soaked clothes did nothing to warm him.

But as he noticed that Alistair's men had moved into the woods, he figured he would finish the last of them off and maybe even take down the blackguard himself. Carlisle pushed through the cold and the pain sustained from wounds he'd gotten during the night. He ignored the red fields of Adelton and Hayes and urged what was left of his platoon to move into Raven's Grove.

Of six thousand men—together with strategic brilliance, tact and luck—they had more than halved the enemy's army. But their price had been high, maybe even a higher one than Alistair had paid. For when Alistair's own men decided to desert their ranks and run away—Carlisle' and Edward's men remained by their sides, loyal until they died by the cold steel cutting into them. There was barely anyone left who'd come down to Adelton to fight, but even so, they were victorious.

Carlisle finally saw the cowering lord running away from some of Edward's men, escaping the clearing they found themselves in. Carlisle gripped his sword tighter as he licked his lips. He'd finally get the bastard. Oh, Edward would be most pleased when he presented the day's capture. He ran after the cowering Alistair, trying to flee from the scene for the second time in his life.

Carlisle caught up to him and slashed the back of his calves, successfully cutting him down. The morning cold hurt his lungs from the effort, but he didn't care. A few of his men came after him, ready to defend him at any cost. But they all knew the battle was over.

"It seems, Alistair, that you are not _destined_ to claim Adelton Hall. Not now, not ever," he gloated, spitting out some blood to the ground, right by the wounded lord. It mingles with the rest of the blood which had been spilled in that clearing. Alistair growled at him but didn't move.

"Doesn't matter," he smirked.

Carlisle furrowed his brow. He had captured the lord, yet the other seemed smug, in a way. Losing a battle like he just had shouldn't make anyone so smug.

And a feeling settled in his stomach that Alistair's soldiers had somehow managed to enter Adelton despite their best efforts. That feeling increased tenfold when several of Carlisle's soldiers came running from the castle, urging him to come at once.

"My lord," one said, taking the lead before the other five who had urged their horses there.

They stared at Carlisle, but they saw in his eyes that he knew something was very wrong. He grew nauseous, felt sick to his stomach and the momentary feeling of victory washed away, mingling together with the stale sweat, chill, and taste of blood in his mouth. A ringing worked its way into his ears and all sound grew thick in the morning mist as the man before him spoke. Carlisle saw the lips move, but he couldn't for the life of him hear what he had said.

He could only grow paler and paler. "Get me a horse," he demanded in a croaking voice. He turned around to Alistair. Carlisle didn't really know why he hated him so much then, but he had the sudden urge to behead the smug man. He walked up to Alistair and whooshed the sword, the action ripping part of Alistair's flesh and causing a violent scream to erupt from the lord. He had just slashed his face. "Put him in chains," he growled before heading for the waiting mare which someone had procured.

Carlisle didn't even feel the horse gallop, he didn't care that at least a dozen men were now following him. He only cared about those lips, how they had moved to form bizarre words. He started shivering and sweating at the same time as they came up to Adelton, saw the blood once more painting the valley red.

He ran into the castle and remarked that the doors were opened. Strange. He rushed in together with the rest of the group, strangely knowing _where_ he was supposed to go, the unsettling feeling growing. He suddenly remembered Saxton's words to him, Edward and Jacob in the tent. That sentiment of dread consumed him the closer and closer he got. And he started realizing what that soldier had told him and he had to stop.

Carlisle was consumed by nausea and threw up in the winding stone staircase, dry-heaving as he refused to fall to his knees. He gritted his teeth and ignored the stares from his men as he kept climbing to that one room.

He didn't hear anything the closer he got to the familiar hallway. Carlisle' mouth started trembling once he saw Lords Athar and Quinn posted just outside the door. Renée Swan, Alice and Mrs. Hammond were there as well. Alan Moore stood in one corner, hugging himself, his face shadowed. But he could hear the soft cries emanating from the one-legged man.

And then he heard it, the sobs coming from Isabella's room, heart-wrenching cries escaping the door and he didn't even know if he wanted to turn the handle.

Athar stood completely still, looking like Carlisle felt, something in his eyes extinguishing together with the cries; as if he was losing something important.

Carlisle' hand fell on the doorknob and his face twisted in pain as he pushed the door open.

Before him was revealed the most horrid scene he had ever seen in his entire life. And it was something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He registered some people in the corner—was it maybe Jacob? And someone more? Alas, those were not the ones who caught his attention.

The defeating image presented itself like a grotesque Renaissance painting. He saw Isabella Swan on her bed, supporting Edward Cullen's head and upper body against her chest. The scene was bizarre, like a pietà, as she cradled her lover in her arms. She was crying into him, shivering in a soft peach-colored dress entirely ruined by rivers of blood that spilled out of him.

And he realized Edward lay dying in her arms.

She broke free for a moment from her entranced state and her piercing chocolate eyes found his, shivering, utterly broken and it took her a moment to find air from the violent sobs.

"Carlisle," she managed in a broken voice while he fell to his knees.

* * *

 **A/N: Don't hate me for the end of this chapter! I will try to update again on Wednesday/Thursday!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	30. Chapter 30

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 30_

 _April 3_ _rd_ _, 1521 – Flatlands, eastern Sorossa by the sea._

 _Jacob noted the tense stance, the clenched fists and locked gaze as he walked up to him. There was a determinedness in those green orbs he was very familiar with._

 _"I cannot abandon her, Jacob," the masked man whispered._

 _"I know," Jacob answered. "I know, Edward." His friend turned to face him and never before had he seen a man as torn as him._

He breathed in the fresh air, closed his eyes and fought hard not to shiver. This was what it meant to be king. Should he ignore returning north and remain in the middle of the country so that he may rescue Isabella? Or should he leave her for Carlisle to rescue, but not knowing if she had been saved or not?

"I cannot just leave her…and all those refugees. Victoria does this to send a message. I _need_ to go…"

"I know you want to, Edward. I know what she means to you. But you aren't just Edward Cullen anymore." Jacob's voice echoed atop that hill as the voice of reason. Edward already knew it would be irresponsible of him to leave the north. Edward rushing down there in his guise as Cullen would make William disappear. He would simply cast aside his responsibilities as king. He couldn't do that. He knew that. It was why he grew so anxious because he knew the decision that was _expected_ of him.

"It is clear why Victoria has spurred Alistair to attack Adelton. She wants to finish what she started. And we have fewer men, we need to be smart about this. I am Alistair certain probably has much more than two or three thousand men."

He felt the weighted hand press down on his left shoulder as Jacob Black, his brother in arms, came to stand next to him. "You are a key strategist and you've been pushing Fawkes in the right direction during this campaign without him noticing it. It has put you in the lead this far. Leave the north and we might lose a large part of our army."

Something seemed to break a little in Edward, like a piece of him had just been torn in two. "I cannot go, can I," he stated. It was never a question. There was never a choice. He couldn't leave the crown behind, not even for Isabella—lest he loses everything he'd fought so hard to stay hidden. He turned to Jacob, his eyes glazed. "Let us find Carlisle so we may switch clothes," he mumbled, utterly downtrodden and defeated.

"You know Carlisle and I will do everything in our might to save her—" Jacob started until they saw a group of soldiers rush away in the distance, at the end of the camp. It was soon that they encountered Saxton by Edward's tent.

"Don't tell me Carlisle left already?" Edward asked, bewildered. That could not be! How could Edward Cullen ride down to save Isabella if Carlisle had already taken off without the mask?

Saxton stared at them for a moment. "Did you speak with His Highness?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, but what about Carlisle?" Jacob asked, almost irritated.

"Timmy!" Saxton suddenly uttered and a gangly-looking man stepped into the tent. "Tell Cullen what you told me and Carlisle," the Sorossan lord said.

And Timmy, the scout, retold the news, of Alistair's army already having made it into the forest of Raven's Grove, and that he would probably reach Isabella Swan and Adelton Hall the following day from the road they were taking and at the pace they were going.

"He didn't see you two and didn't want to waste any time, so he rushed with one of the platoons without waiting for you or word from the king," Saxton murmured. He didn't like the stunned look on both faces as Edward and Jacob exchanged looks. "Is there something wrong?" Saxton asked? "You know, I told Carlisle as well. This whole thing is giving me a bad feeling," he stammered.

"N-no," Jacob swallowed.

"We need to…speak with His Majesty," Edward growled, dragging his friend along with him. They made it to his tent, getting some strange stares from Saxton on their way out.

Once they were certain they'd not be overheard, Edward leaned over a table and growled.

"How could he simply go away like that? We were supposed to switch clothes!"

"Maybe he thought you would come as…Edward?" Jacob wondered out loud.

"This is a wreak! No time to plan, no time to set a clear strategy. He should know better than to simply throw himself into the fight—"

"If he hadn't amassed those men and left, maybe Alistair might reach Isabella too fast…and maybe there'd be nothing left to save," Jacob whispered. "Whatever his actions, this is what we've got to work with right now, Edward."

The masked man stared at his friend. It dawned on him what Jacob was referring to.

"No," he said somberly.

"Why not? You allowed Carlisle to do it. Besides, my impersonation of you is much better than his," Jacob said, trying to liven up the situation.

Edward removed the mask and held it in his hands, looking at the shell of Cullen. "Because it is a heavy burden to ask of someone. Because you would be risking your life. It is dangerous and your experience—"

"I am willing to risk it for Isabella," Jacob said so determinedly that the force of his voice had Edward press his lips together. "I may only ride there with a thousand men. But both Carlisle and I know Raven's Grove better than Alistair. We hold the advantage of knowledge and surprise," he continued. His bare hand stretched out. "Let me share this burden."

Forest green eyes stared at the extended hand, the orbs hovering for a moment at the limb. His own gloved hands clutched the black mask as if clinging onto life itself. He didn't know why a little voice in his head—an intuition—was telling him not to give away the mask. But it was Jacob, his comrade. He trusted in him. And even if he lacked the experience he and Carlisle held, he knew he could still have a chance against Alistair. There wasn't much choice either way anymore.

"Maybe I should reveal everything—" he murmured as his eyes found Jacob's dark ones.

The latter shook his head just as the early spring breeze grabbed faintly onto the tent. "I grew up with my father, I knew Irias and Raleigh long before you did, Edward. And they would never support you if they found out. Mark my words. In Constantinople, you trusted in me and Carlisle to save her. And the _three_ of us—Isabella included—managed to get out of the city. You do not always need to play the hero or to run to her rescue, Edward. You have another responsibility now and she understands that" he continued slowly.

Edward still looked hesitant.

"Let me wear the mask, let me fight for her."

"Alistair hates Edward Cullen. He will go after you, Jacob—"

"Isabella is dear to me, like a sister. And I want to help her, help you. Victoria is only sending Alistair to Adelton to distract Cullen—thus thinking she can weaken William. Do not let her succeed. You are a brilliant strategist in battle, you should see this as clear as day, but you are letting your emotions blind you."

Jacob was right. Jacob was usually right. And wise for his age.

A feeling of dread, of anger and of pain settled once he realized his friends had been right all along. There was no possible scenario where he could have donned the mask and ventured south. Not with his responsibility. He was supposed to lead the armies up north with Fawkes and Irias.

He finally let go of the leather shell, stretched out his own hand and gave it to Jacob. Jacob was intrigued at how light it felt. He had, somehow, suspected it'd be heavier.

"You will have to act as I act, fight as I fight. Lead them as I would but do not take any chances," his friend told him. Edward went to get Jacob and extra set of folded clothes, hesitating before giving them over.

"Isabella's life is what matters to me, Jacob." He looked up at him.

"When I get back, this will one day be a story we tell our grandchildren," he winked. Both stood still for a while, letting the entire situation sink in slowly. Maybe Jacob would come to understand what taking on the mask really meant in that small moment.

Alas, they knew they'd have to move soon if Jacob was to reach Carlisle and Adelton in time. Edward changed into his other garb and soon William Fell was once more present.

Jacob was certain of something, and it was that he _had_ to get to Isabella before Alistair did. He put on the mask, bowed before Edward and was then on his way.

Gathering a thousand men with the king's permission was easy, around nightfall they were ready to leave. There was not enough time to wait for the break of dawn. The journey would be uncomfortable, but worth it. Jacob could not help but walk prouder when the rest of the soldiers stared at him; thinking he was Edward. He bore it well, walking down the road with a threatening aura about him. He seated Cid well, the gray stallion familiar with him since years back, thus not presenting a problem.

Jacob knew the landscape too, and he knew where to ride in Raven's Grove to intercept Victoria's army before it had a chance to close too much in on Adelton.

 _April 4_ _th_ _– Cadherra, Raven's Grove_

They realized where they had the enemy too late. Jacob had spurred on the men, made them ride the entire night to catch up to Carlisle only to arrive just as the battle had started. The scouts told them they were hot on the trails of Alistair himself with his thousands of men.

Jacob had hesitated. There were many refugees from northern Angloa not only in Adelton, but in Cadherra in general. They could not allow them to get hold of the castle or he was certain innocent citizens would feel the might of Victoria's force.

Alistair had brought more than previously believed and as they noted there seemed to be another part of the vast mass of soldiers already heading for the castle, the masked man had to act quickly. He could not wait.

Thus, they decided to hope for the best, that Carlisle could hold the front. He took a long look at the men who had willingly accompanied him—there to fight for glory and alongside whom they believed to be the Lion of the North. They would distract part of Alistair's platoons to give the inhabitants of Adelton a fighting chance, to hold the fray until Carlisle circled around.

The first few hours were rough, fighting deep within the forest. It was hard to find footing in the shrubbery. The muddy interior of the murky woods did not help and kept making both sides slip. Alas, they could all hear the grand confrontation by the castle as Alistair paid them no heed, hungrily heading for Adelton, set on taking it. Jacob knew that if it kept going, Isabella would not be alive once he broke through Alistair's defenses.

His men fought valiantly, and they used the woods to their advantage. At one point they could hear yet another clash of blades as Carlisle undoubtedly pushed up from the southwest.

Now there was indeed a chance.

And even though they were all tired and Jacob had probably already lost more than a third of his original platoon, he urged the men to fight on. If they pulled back, Alistair would push on Carlisle and get more men to Adelton. And Adelton would undeniably fall under the cruel warlord.

The masked man fought in the thick of it, brutally cutting down soldiers to his left and right. And his courage spurred on his tired men to fight even fiercer. Theirs was a rage on the field so strong that Victoria's men started hesitating. They grew increasingly afraid of these soldiers who didn't seem to even fear death—who cast themselves into the battle with one thought in mind: to kill. And the news soon started reaching Alistair at the front that some of his platoons by the rear started deserting, thus weakening the back of his line-up.

Jacob exclaimed in joy when he suspected they were winning. It all was going brilliantly until Carlisle decided to take his men up to Adelton. Then it went south. Now they stood—no more than six hundred men—all within Raven's Grove, having to face at least two thousand spilling in from the trees, ordered there by Alistair.

They momentarily found a thicket to shield themselves, to regroup before Alistair would attack. "They are too many, general!" one of his officers shouted as a double line of fifty men kept Alistair's soldiers at bay while they kept the high ground.

Jacob knew what would happen if they tried to pull back. Alistair's forces would spill toward Adelton. He would swallow Carlisle' army whole and then take the castle.

"We cannot give up. There are people in that castle who have been running from Victoria's tyranny for months, who have no homes. People who came to Cadherra because they thought they'd be safe here. Victoria isn't sending this army only to threaten the Countess of Cadherra. She is sending this army to give a message to us all—that we are never safe from her. But we _must_ stand our ground. We _must_ be the wall that shields them from their steel-tipped arrows and cannon fodder. If we retreat, we fail those within Adelton Hall," he shouted at all who were willing to listen.

The men looked at him; tired, broken down, many with severe wounds. Jacob ignored the cuts and scrapes he had received himself. "If you don't fight for them, then fight for your families. If we lose grip on Cadherra, William Fell will lose this war!" he shouted. "I know you are tired, I know you want to give up. But you came with me, willing to risk your lives. I ask you now to show me the faith you have in me, in yourselves!" he uttered, and he was surprised as shouts and cries sounded in approval.

" _Audeamus!_ " the soldiers chanted to him. Let us dare.

And they turned once more to Alistair's soldiers with something sweeping over their eyes, like a shroud of valor, of adrenaline. And they charged, like a massive wall of pure will and rage as they attacked. They pushed back, they clashed with their swords, shot with their arrows and killed at will.

Alistair's soldiers grew pale at the sight and more and more ran away until the numbers were equal. But Jacob's side was in a bad shape. Yet they would not back down. Those men who fought at his side smiled, knowing they stood for a good cause. And even behind the mask, he smiled.

Alistair watched Adelton Hall, growled as his side was fighting to keep its hold over Carlisle Chaeld. He was so close he could almost savor the victory. Edward Cullen was surely defeated behind him.

A sentinel rode up to him from within the forest. "They are deserting us like flies, my lord!" the man shouted as he then turned his horse, ready to gallop back. "Cullen has almost taken down the two thousand you sent there." Alistair noted a hint of awe lacing the man's voice.

He would have to go there himself. And as his horse spurred toward the sound of another battle, Alistair was overcome by ire, by bloodlust. He would seek out Cullen and finish what should have been finished a year ago in Morrow's Glade outside of Wessport.

This time he would defeat him.

The platoons had found themselves in a large glade just by the opening of the forest. Alistair stared in awe at the body count of men lying around. Some were dying loudly, others already dead. Others crying in desperation. In the thick of it, were two large groups facing off. Edward Cullen stood at the front, killing to the left and right.

He growled, sending in the dozen men he'd taken with him. Alistair got off the horse and sought out the masked general. The moment the masked man saw him, both clashed blades and started dueling. There was no surrounding battle. Only them.

There was no talking this time, only concentration as one tried to kill the other. Alistair hissed as Cullen slashed his upper left arm and smirked with satisfaction as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Alistair gave out a shout of fury and started dealing heavier blows and thrusts until, to his amazement, the tip of his sword embedded itself in Cullen's left side, right in his abdomen. It did not go in far at first, but Alistair tried to push it, only to have the gloved hand grip the steel, preventing it from going further. Cullen stared at him, with two large and confused eyes as he coughed up some blood.

Alistair's smug smirk made Jacob furious and it was sheer willpower that helped him from preventing the sword to go further into his side. He could not feel the pain yet, only the adrenalin sounding loudly in his ears. Alistair growled as he put more force behind the sword, and it slipped, inching a few more centimeters, causing Jacob to cough up more blood.

His own sword came up over his head like he just remembered it being in his hand. It came down with an impressive force on Alistair. The arrogant lord only had one choice, which was to block. He extracted his own sword violently from Jacob's left abdomen and parried him. The wind whooshed out of Jacob's lungs once the pain finally washed over him and he gritted his teeth together. He could not fall now, or the morale would go down with him.

He would have eventually lost to Alistair if his own men hadn't interceded. A major and a baron disarmed Alistair and the moment the leader was brought down to his knees, the rest of the army gave up.

Jacob fought hard to stay on his feet while pressing hard on the wound. Just a little longer. He had to make sure they had won the fight.

"R-Rogers," he struggled, fighting to calm down his beating heart. No one had yet seen the blood gushing out the wound or his shredded left side.

Edward's old captain—who had once followed him to Adelton Hall the first time he'd gone there—now rushed up to him.

Jacob cleared his voice. "Round up the men, let Alistair's own know they have lost in Raven's Grove. Make sure you send someone to Adelton to say that Alistair has surrendered to us."

Rogers smiled. "Yes, sir!" He started heading for the clearing.

Jacob heard the cheering of those who were left alive. He took it all in, that unbelievable feeling of victory, of how the men turned to him with ecstatic grins and smiles hitting their features.

"Audeamus!" they now shouted and roared again.

"General, should we start heading for Adelton?" one of his men asked. It was only then he noted the cloudy look in the masked man's eyes and the blood dripping down his leg.

"I think…I will not be—" he struggled to form the words. He wanted to ask the soldier something but could not form a coherent sentence when his vision started blackening. Before their general could fall to the ground, he was caught by several men. They all gathered to him in a panic once they noted how severely wounded he truly was.

"Cullen is down!" Jacob heard one of them shout in complete panic.

"Get a horse!"

He fought to stay awake, his eyes darting on an off from the naked treetops to the cloudy sky. The buds were ready to burst soon, bringing with them the green roof of the forest. He started getting cold, started losing the feeling in his limbs. He turned his head briefly and saw the smug smile manifesting on Alistair's features once he realized what he'd accomplished.

Jacob was whisked to the castle as quickly as possible, while Carlisle fought off the final few standing of Alistair's army.

In the distance, Isabella saw the gray stallion carrying the man in black. She eagerly threw on a white cape over the peach gown, heading down to greet her husband with a kiss. She never thought he'd abandon it all for her, that he'd rescue her like that once more. She wanted to jump into his arms and thank him for saving her—for saving the refugees and Cadherra once more.

There were still wounded taken into the Palas to receive care from Sofia when she stepped down to meet Edward at the first courtyard. She saw the group enter through the gatehouse, only then noticing something was very wrong. Her brow creased when she realized another man seated the gray stallion, keeping the masked man on it so he would not fall down.

Isabella's heart started beating madly and slowly all attention gathered to those who entered. Her mouth dried up, and a look of sheer horror flashed across her face once she realized he was wounded. But she did not yet know how severe the wound was.

The soldiers watched the brunette in the white cape rush toward them, accompanied by Alan Moore, Lord Quinn and a few servants who had followed her.

"Edward?" she said loudly, hoping to find him lucid. "Edward!" She got to Cid and saw the state of him, the ghastly amount of blood he had already lost. Sheer panic took hold as she started shivering. "Alan, get Sofia!" she ordered as her voice broke. "Now!"

"Lord Alistair got him in the abdom—" one of the soldiers started. But the young countess shook her head, white as a sheet.

"Have someone bring a stretcher from the Palas infirmary," she ordered one of the servants. "E-Edward?" she closed in on him as her lip started quivering. "Please." Her voice cracked in such a painful way that those present could do nothing but stare at the heartbreaking scene.

Sofia soon shot out of the infirmary, as worried as Isabella. Two men carried a stretcher after her.

They rushed to Isabella's rooms and had someone call on Athar and Friar Nicholas.

Once in the confinements of her chamber, the masked man was placed on her made bed while more people gathered in the hallway. Mrs. Hammond had gotten there together with Alice and Renée Swan.

"Is he in there? Is he lucid?" came a worried voice. Athar rushed down the hallways with Lord Quinn in tow, the latter just having informed him.

"Isabella will not let us enter, my lord," Renée answered silently, staring at the door. She had grown pale as well. "But…I saw him…the wound." She turned to the aged man, all standing in the dim corridor of the castle, the torches suddenly growing invasive, contrasting with the dull light entering from a window at the end of the hall. "I do not think he will make it," she whispered honestly.

Meanwhile, within the confinements of her room, the fireplace rumbled while the flames licked its sooty interior. The gray light seeped into the room and Isabella helped Sofia manage the wound. She did everything the gypsy asked her as perfectly as she could. At one point—most likely due to the warmth—he came too.

"Edward!" she exclaimed when his eyes opened. It was only then she noticed it. They were not his eyes. She hesitated and looked at him for a long while. It wasn't Carlisle either.

"It's me, Jacob," he weak voice finally stammered. Isabella might have imagined it, but she could swear she heard Sofia murmur something in Spanish.

"Jacob?" Isabella could not believe it. His abdomen had just been bandaged shut with herbs stuffed into the wound to seal it and stop the bleeding. Yet Jacob's lips were blue, his eyes darting slightly. He seemed to be cold, so she placed her white cape over him. Alas, it was more red than white by this point. Her hands came to undo the mask, to let him breathe. The moment the leather came off, Jacob's face was visible to them. He was white as a sheet, yet clammy. "Why are you in his guise?" she asked, almost sounding desperate.

"It is a long story," he answered. Jacob looked at Sofia and then at Isabella. "Did we win?" he now asked her.

Her eyes were glazed as she cupped his chin in a caring manner, sitting right next to him on the bed. "You _saved_ us, Jacob. And you know what? Running up here, I was informed by some of my maids. The castle is buzzing alive with what you did in Raven's Grove. The men who brought you also told me what they sacrificed to give us and Carlisle a fighting chance." She tried to smile through the worry, certain the worst was past them.

But it was only then that she saw it, saw the blood slowly seeping through the bandages.

"Sofia!" she told the Spaniard who came to their side.

Sofia removed the soaked cloth and took another good look at the wound. Isabella saw it in her face, the way she lost hope in her eyes, the way she shook her head. How shame washed across her features.

The countess' lips quivered when she redirected her eyes back to her wounded friend. Jacob had realized it earlier than she—that he was dying. It was his turn to cup her cheek now.

"It is alright, Isabella," he said in a breathless voice to console her. The first tear escaped her, and Sofia pushed some more linen cloth and tried with all her might to save the young man.

"No!" she lamented back to him. "No, you cannot leave." Her face twisted painfully, and her heart started breaking apart from the sorrow that now claimed her. A hole burrowed itself into it and she feared the emptiness it carried. Jacob was her brother; he had walked her down the aisle of her marriage, had saved her in Constantinople, had been there for her upon her return to Adelton. He was her friend, her brother. And she couldn't lose him.

"I wish to speak with Nicholas," he said with a certain tiredness lacing his voice. It was as if Jacob had completely given up while the blood kept seeping from the wound slowly.

She grabbed his hands and could not even look at Sofia when she nodded. The priest entered and sat down next to Jacob, there to give him the last rites. It was a short affair, Jacob had not done anything he'd regretted. Nicholas stared at the man and then at the mask. He was too afraid to breach the subject, it seemed no one else had thought of it. Nicholas bent down to murmur into Jacob's ear, the usual jovial face as stiff as a mask, the big doe eyes blank, pained.

" _Ego te absolvo_ ," he finally whispered once they were finished, making the sign of the cross above Jacob.

"Isabella," Jacob said as he turned to the brunette. "Put on the mask."

She stared dumbfounded at him, unable to find anything to say to such a demand. "W-what?" she asked him.

"Jacob Black cannot be found in this room. People will ask _why_ I was in the guise of Edward Cullen. And this secret can _never_ be known. I know Lord Irias and Raleigh—my own father. They must never know, Isabella. Never." He stared at the mask. "Put it on me and let me take this secret to my grave."

She looked at the black thing, thrown to the side of the bed. She hated it with all her heart. She wanted to throw it into the fire, watch it be scorched by the flames. "N-no," she stammered. "I will not." Tears had ceased to stream down her face, Jacob could feel his life diminishing by the minute.

"You must, Isabella!" he said.

"You _saved_ us! You gave everything for us, Jacob," she burst out in sobs, they were more violent this time. "I will not do this. I _want_ them to know what you did. I want the whole of Angloa to know what you did. I am done with this farce. Edward will understand."

But he shook his head. "Put it on me, Isabella. That is my wish." He eyed her for a long while. "I never did this for glory, otherwise I wouldn't have worn that mask. I came here for one purpose, to save you. And I fulfilled that purpose. Do not let me fail Edward now by revealing what he has fought so hard to keep hidden. He loses support if the secret is out. And thus, he'd lose this…conflict." They noticed it was more difficult for him to speak, and the linens Sofia had pressed against the wound were soaked once more. "Please," he begged her one final time.

Isabella looked at the mask, shaking as she walked up to it with tears streaming down her face. Her whole body felt made out of marble as she went to pick it up. And an object that was supposed to be light, grew utterly heavy in her hands. She moved toward him in heavy steps, her whole body shaking as she tediously placed the mask over his head, her eyes letting the tears flow freely once he rested his head against the pillows once more. Jacob looked so tired.

He smiled at her, took her hand in his. She went to sit in the bed with him, cradled his head in her warm embrace. Her sobs were soft against his ears and he asked her to forgive him for leaving her. He asked her not to tell his father how he had passed. And, then, when he thought that only she could hear, he said: "I am afraid, Isabella." He looked up at her with wide eyes, his limbs growing stiffer and stiffer.

His words made her sob harder as she caressed his face. "I am here," she said through the waterfall of tears, her words strangled. She hugged him against her, not caring that her dress was now soaked with his blood.

She did not hear the commotion outside of the door, only the handle turning, and the door jerked open. Isabella blinked when she saw Carlisle, looking like he'd come straight from the battlefield. He had mud and blood splattered everywhere, as well as some minor cuts and wounds.

"Carlisle," she managed to utter between the sobs as he fell to his knees. She shook her head, trying to tell him that it wasn't Edward. But no more words could escape her. She saw the utter defeat on his features, the fear, the pain. Carlisle stepped in and firmly shut the door behind him, not even caring that there were two more present in that room. He walked up to Jacob, crying now as well, for he did not know who was under the mask.

The masked man looked at his friend and smiled, eyelids growing heavy. "We…won," he managed to say.

"We won, my friend, we won," Carlisle confirmed in a crushed voice.

"Carlisle," Isabella said in between sobs, looking straight at him, lost in her sorrow. "It isn't Edward," she lamented. Her whole body shook as she repeated the words. "It isn't Edward." She burrowed her face in Jacob's throat as she held him.

Carlisle' eyes widened while he now started shaking as well. The smell of battle and blood mingled with the waft of fire logs, of wet stone and salt tears. The sound of the crackling fire with their cries muddled together.

"Jacob?" Carlisle whispered to her. When she nodded, he looked down at the masked man once more and started shaking his head. He had nothing more to say, didn't know what he could ask her that he didn't already know. He understood why Jacob wore the mask, understood that Edward had chosen duty to his country, but that the masked man still had to ride down to save Isabella Swan. Carlisle understood that if he had stayed behind, he would have worn the mask and none of this would've happened.

"Not your fault, Carlisle," came the staccato words from the dying man. "My…choice," Jacob whispered. "Mask…too," he sighed. His eyes looked at the wooden beams in the ceiling as his breaths grew shallower and shallower.

Isabella put his head down once he stopped breathing and held his hand until he was no longer alive.

She had just lost a brother, as had Carlisle. Friar Nicholas prayed in the corner for his soul. Sofia stared at the fire with an empty look in her eyes.

It was awfully quiet when Jacob died. It was like the world had stopped, until they heard the clattering of raindrops hitting the windows. They heard nature cry in her own way. The rain came down gently at first, only to grow in strength. It washed away the gore of battle, it washed away the death and destruction. But it could not wash away the pain present in that room.

The Countess of Cadherra looked up from her dead friend to Carlisle. And she reached out to him and grabbed his hand in a show of solidarity. They both knew what they had lost. Not just Jacob, but so much more.

She did not want to open that door and have the lords see him, see his corpse. Adelton Hall was now becoming a graveyard, housing tombs of the great people she'd once known. Rosalie had died there as well. And now Jacob.

And Edward Cullen was dead in the eyes of the whole country. The mixed emotions were too much for her and she could not help as a cry took hold of her, a cry so painful that when the lords on the other side of the door heard it, they didn't care more for decorum and burst in unannounced.

They beheld the scene, saw Edward Cullen lay dead on Isabella Swan's bed.

Their hero was dead.

The Lion of the North was no more.

Hours passed where she did not move from his side. The whispers of the faithful countess, not abandoning her love even in death soon echoed in the castle. Edward Cullen's demise saw many lamenting for him. The tragedy of the two lovers tore at many hearts.

At one point, Renée Swan stepped in and saw her daughter by his bedside, still in her bloodied dress, still holding his hand, still crying.

The mother went to her daughter and sat down next to her. She had no words of comfort to offer because she knew exactly what she was going through. She had lost her lover as well. When her daughter finally turned to her with her chocolate eyes, showing the internal torment, Renée tried but failed to smile.

"He is gone," her daughter said, like she couldn't quite comprehend it.

But her mother shook her head. "He will never truly be gone," she responded. Carlisle Chaeld sat on the other side by the bed. Athar was in the corner with his head in his hands.

"He _is_ gone, forever," Isabella cried.

Renée squeezed her hand. "Is your father truly gone?" she asked out of the blue in a motherly tone. Her daughter's eyebrows furrowed as the tears now trailed down her puffy face slower. "Have you not felt, in a way, that he has always been present in the background? I can feel his presence at times, in my sleep, when I doubt, when I feel as though everything will fall apart. I feel him there. And I believe you will find the same thing with Edward."

But Renée could never know what her child meant. For, for her, Edward Cullen was no more. And while the real masked man had not died, she could never be with him as William Fell. He was a _king_ , he would never take her, a mere countess. Isabella was smart enough to realize he would have to have a political marriage to reinforce his position on the throne once the war was over. She had just lost him, because openly loving William Fell could never happen.

Isabella looked at Carlisle, and he knew the same she did. Never again would Edward sneak into the mask. The general was gone forever.

"I need to speak with Lord Chaeld," she finally stated. Hours had passed and she didn't know if she could pick up the pieces yet. But she understood that time was not on their side. They needed to resolve the issue at hand, how to go about it all from here.

Renée wiped her daughter's face clean and then stepped outside together with Athar and Sofia. Nicholas remained. The others didn't seem to care.

"Edward needs to know," Carlisle said.

She wanted to tell him as well. But Jacob had gone through a great sacrifice so that he could keep the farce up. If they told him, Edward would come rushing down from the north in a heartbeat. He would leave it all behind and most likely lose against Beauchamp.

"We cannot. Not until he has the upper hand against Beauchamp," she said.

"How could you allow him to die like Edward and not himself?" Carlisle asked her. She detected some anger.

"I don't know," she lamented. "I…"

"I told Jacob to do it," Nicholas said from the corner. He looked up when he received their stern stares. "Jacob knew why he had to do it. He knew as well as I that the secret must forever be kept. It is easiest that way. And he knew there would be too many questions surrounding Jacob Black's sudden death while Cullen had been wounded at the same place, the same time. He was willing to take it with him to the grave. Do not lash out at Lady Swan, Lord Chaeld. It is me you should be condemning. It wasn't ethical of me, I know. It wasn't moral. But it had to be done."

His speech ended and all they could do was look at the friar with their lips thinning. Isabella furrowed her eyebrows. "No one will ever know what he sacrificed for Angloa. Only that damned mask will take the glory." She looked at his corpse. "His father will never know what his son was."

"We will," Carlisle said, his voice echoing. "You, I, Nicholas, Sofia, and Edward. We will always know what Jacob did. He put it all aside to protect Edward in the end. He was the wisest of the three of us, despite being the youngest." Carlisle choked on the last words as he cried once more. "We were brothers in arms, we stood against the world and thought we were invincible."

The rain had stopped, as Angloa lamented her fallen hero, she also washed her clean, the sun soon shone its way into the room.

"What will happen when this gets out?" she asked slowly. Would the soldiers who had previously fought for Edward fight for William. Would they still win this war? "Edward was the connecting point for everything. What happens once he is gone? William hasn't established himself. Will they follow _him_?"

Carlisle stared at the sun, at the warm rays, sensing the nearing of spring. "Edward Cullen started from nothing. He proved who he was, he earned our respect with no high titles. He will do the same as William."

She nodded slowly.

"We… we need to bury him," she stated after a while. "As Jacob… and let Lord Black know his son died while fighting in this battle to save us, to save so many civilians."

"Edward Cullen will have to be buried too," Carlisle whispered.

"He will," she said, now daring to look up at him. "I think I know where he should find his final resting place." She turned to Nicholas. "But it will wait, friar. It has to wait. We cannot have a burial of him yet, lest the news spread. William Fell must not yet know."

"How long do you suppose we wait?"

She didn't have an answer that would satisfy him. Whatever she said, it would still be wrong. "A week?" Both knew Edward wouldn't have made much progress in the north in a week. But it was better than nothing.

"News of his death will spread anyway," Nicholas stated.

"A week," Isabella said once more, looking sternly at both men. "I take the responsibility."

 _April 11_ _th_ _– Adelton Hall_

Jacob's body had been taken down to the crypts, the same crypts where Rosalie Fell and Charles Swan were now entombed. Six days had passed, and Isabella spent most of her time there as the body was embalmed, prepared for his travel to his home close to Safeira. They had sent word to Lord Black who had come from the front.

And now Edward had been sent the word as well. Rumors of the masked man's demise echoed in the country and it needed to be confirmed. But she had not the heart. Carlisle had urged her that they needed a body to switch with Jacob's. They had not stopped to question the morality of their actions as they, on the second day of Jacob's death, had exchanged him for an unnamed deceased soldier and placed the mask on him. Jacob had been moved to another coffin awaiting his father's return.

Sofia and Nicholas had helped with the whole affair and after, Isabella had become so shaken that she had taken to her rooms. The April air was warmer, spring waiting to burst at the seams. She saw hints of green in the crowns of Raven's Grove, the muddied fields below Adelton getting the emerald kiss again.

Alistair had been locked and forgotten in the dungeons, Alan Moore visiting him to gloat every so often. Other than that, Adelton was subdued, murky to her. It was Mrs. Hammond and Renée Swan who ran the castle while Isabella walked around in her black garb, mourning the loss of her loved ones. She was preparing herself for the short journey to Carant, where Lord Black had his main residence, south of Safeira. She and Carlisle would take the body there and be present at the private funeral. Edward wouldn't get the news to get there in time. It tore at her that he would not get the chance to bid his farewells to Jacob.

 _April 14_ _th_ _– Carant_

Lord Billard Black—Billy as most knew him—looked at the open coffin, at the pale features of his son. His other children were there as well. The Countess of Cadherra had personally escorted the body of his son to his home; a quaint settlement with an elegant castle atop a small hill. Jacob's brothers and sisters kept to the back as the father sat at the front, alone, showing little to no signs of what was going through his mind. During the funeral service, the countess' shoulders were stiff, and none could see the broken expression passing over her features.

They walked to the crypts of the castle at Carant where Jacob would join his mother and ancestors in the family tomb. Once they came up to the fresh air, Lord Black stopped the countess to have a short word with her.

It was a bleak day. While spring had arrived, the last winds of winter caressed their brows and an icy chill swept over them. The blooming flowers shifted harshly, and the pollen settled.

"I give you my gratitude for bringing him here, Lady Swan," the lord said stiffly, his bulky form as tense as she was. Isabella had expected him to say more, to ask more, but he left her with those words until she burst out in irritation.

"Nothing else?" she asked in rough tones. "Your son _died_ to save us, to save Cadherra, and you do not want to know anything else about him, about his passing?" Her voice shook with a hint of anger to it.

Billy turned around in the inner courtyard of his stone castle. Everything there was a polished perfection. But the surface hid the pain beneath.

"I told him years ago he should have remained at home, that he should have joined the clergy, remained in security—like his mother wanted." Billy wrinkled his nose, his voice calm, yet stern. "But he never listened. He joined Cullen."

Isabella started realizing why there had been animosity between father and son. "And you care nothing of what he has accomplished these years with my—" she cut her words short as she shook.

Billy stiffed his jaw and looked at the bright gray and beige stone as the sun trickled its rays from between the clouds.

"Heroic deeds get you killed, in the end. What have these men cast away for all that recognition?" he asked her. "What did they have to sacrifice?"

Isabella shook her head. "Thousands live because of them. _I_ live because of Edward, because of Jacob. That you would not realize what he has done for this country is tragic, my lord, almost as tragic as his passing."

"He was foolish and paid with his life for it!" Billy growled at the countess. Isabella removed her veil and showed her stern features at him.

"Your son was a hero, my lord. An honorable man. I regret his passing, for he was like a brother to me. But do _not_ dismiss his actions and what he fought for. Maybe you will never understand it," she growled back with her eyebrows furrowed, her hands clenched into fists. "But know that he will never be forgotten by me, never be forgotten by Cadherra or Angloa."

"He is dead, Swan. Just like Cullen, just like your father. This war will take many more before it is over."

She scowled at him and gripped the hem of her black gown as Carlisle hovered by the corner. This was one fight where he would not intervene.

Isabella straightened her back and looked him straight in the eye. "I know they are gone. I held my fiancé in my arms as he passed," she lied. "I want this war to end, but I am tired of the hatred spurring from it, Lord Black. I hope you will one day come to understand what your son did for all of us. I hope you will praise him like the rest of Angloa is sure to do."

She curtsied and looked at Carlisle. It was time to leave. And as Lord Black watched the ensemble once more set out for Adelton Hall, he himself ventured down to the crypts, to the tomb of his son. And when he made sure he was utterly by himself, he let his emotions fly loose. He broke down in loud sobs that penetrated the thick stones and floated as a sorrowful melody within his castle.

 _April 17_ _th_ _– Adelton Hall_

The moment the king found out, he cast it all aside and rushed south. Despite gaining on Beauchamp and having already cut his army down to half, William Fell took his armies from the north, pushed Beauchamp back to Wessport and then traveled through the Alban Mountains to Adelton Hall.

An army of nine thousand came into the valley and settled within the week. More people had come from Coldwick, Safeira, Zafra, Cantabria, and even Wessport for the funeral of General Cullen.

Edward had spoken the eve of his arrival with Carlisle. Lord Saxton had pulled back his armies from the East now that Alistair was captured as well. There was one final battle pending now. The battle for Wessport, the final strike that would determine the outcome of the war. Everything was tense. The king did not know if, after the burial of the masked man, he'd have Edward Cullen's men backing him. The lords stood by his side, but did the soldiers? He knew that if he wished to win, he needed them to give it all for him. He needed to earn their respect.

Isabella Swan was the one who got to decide where the great general would be buried. She had spoken briefly with her husband, it was a stiff conversation where the only thing that mattered was the resting place of the unnamed soldier.

She knew of a place that would be fitting, a place that had grown to symbolize the masked man throughout the war. She had married him there in secret, it was only fitting that it should house the soul of Edward Cullen. The glade where Lord Athar had amassed his armies would be the place. The very same glade where Edward Cullen had ridden into with Rosalie Fell.

It took a few days to get all the visitors settled. The procession of the coffin would start in Adelton, from the chapel. But the ceremony would be held within the now green forest. And it seemed half of Angloa had traveled there to pay tribute to the masked man. And each day that passed saw more and more arriving.

Edward and Isabella sat in her chambers, looking at the bed where Jacob had said his final words. That he was angry with both her and Carlisle was an understatement. He had not been informed when Jacob had passed, he had not even been informed to be in time for the funeral. And he felt the guilt of the young man's passing weigh on his shoulders. Edward didn't know how much he had cried, he regretted not having been able to speak with Jacob before his death. And that the young man should take the mask to the grave—he'd sooner reveal the secret than have Jacob sacrifice himself thus.

Under the shroud of darkness, the Countess of Cadherra was whisked into her own rooms where the king of the country waited for her.

She found herself standing before her husband—but yet not her husband. Carlisle sat silently in one corner, fiddling with his hands. No one knew what to say. Not even Edward.

"You know, I overheard some of the soldiers say what he did that day…to buy you time…to help Adelton," the king started in a strangled voice, an empty look settled in his forest depths. He raked a hand through his tousled locks and stared at the floor. " _I_ should have gone in his stead," he whispered.

Isabella looked at her lover and her lip trembled at the pain present in his features. Edward had already lost so much. And now his brother in arms was gone.

"And they will never know…that it was Jacob Black who saved them," he mumbled. The air grew electric, loaded with tension, with sorrow. His eyes found hers. "Why did you let him die with the mask?" he growled at her, the anger mixed with the inconsolable sorrow.

Isabella had thought up what to say for so long, she had prepared her argument, gone over it with herself, with Carlisle, with Nicholas. Yet, as his eyes bore into hers, as she noted the many conflicting emotions raging through him, she found herself grown mute.

"I…don't know," she finally spoke, her words ripping through the tension. She had no wish to defend her actions.

"Why didn't you send word that he had died? Why didn't you tell me of his funeral?" the king asked with a hint of desperation.

His wife looked up at him. "You couldn't leave the north so soon," she started. "You shouldn't have left the north, even now," she whispered.

"That was not your decision to make, Isabella!" he finally lashed out in anger. He got up and started pacing around. "I couldn't even be there for his funeral!"

She clasped her hands together. "The decisions were made, Jacob is dead. You have the war to worry about," she answered curtly. "You are the king, Edward. And fending off an invader goes before attending the funeral of a friend."

Edward was disgusted with himself, with so mindlessly allowing Jacob to go on such a dangerous mission.

She stood up. "He wasn't alone, in the end. He didn't suffer," she whispered.

"They should know about him," he answered back.

Carlisle grunted, a low sound emanating from his throat. "No, we bury Cullen in the earth forever. You remain as William Fell, Edward," he said. "The farce ends."

"The farce never ends, Carlisle. There is a part of it still left. What of Isabella and I?" Edward asked his friend.

"I have no answer to that," Carlisle said. "Only that no one knew of the marriage. In the eyes of the public, she is not a widow, there was no union, you could take her as the king—"

"He could never have me as William Fell. Kings marry for political strength. To cement his power in Angloa he needs the hand of a northerner in the least... or a princess in Europe. Why cast away such a powerful alliance for a mere countess?" she told Carlisle off. It hurt every inch of her heart to have to say those things. Isabella could not read Edward's expression as she kept speaking.

"Hasn't Athar already said this to you? Hasn't he brought up marriage?" Pain laced her words as she spoke.

"I am already married to you."

"Yes, in those woods, before God, William Fell married me. And how do we explain that to the rest of the realm? We would have to reveal everything, and after having gone this far...it cannot be," she lamented. Irrational thought produced by restless nights, anxiety and depression festered within her at that moment. "There is no future left for you and me," Isabella cried. "Angloa comes first, Edward, it has to. I can live with that. Do not give me the false hope that you could marry me again when we both know it is an unlikely possibility!"

He saw her tired state, saw how broken she was. Isabella reflected how they all felt. The war had taken its toll. She had once given him her permission to become king, to cast her aside. And she stood by it, but she couldn't deny anymore that it didn't hurt her. It ripped through her like a knife.

"We have all lost something from this war. But the day Jacob died with your mask on, I didn't only lose my brother, I lost you as well," she cried.

She wanted to be strong, to support him. But Edward needed the harsh reality, the truth of their situation to realize where they stood. "I will always be loyal to you, always stand by your side as a loyal subject and serve you as my king. Because you will make a wonderful king, as William Fell. And I dream of the day you take your final seat in Wessport or Safeira, wherever that may be. But we must be prepared that I may not be standing by your side," she said, only to storm for the door and head for the stables. Isabella needed time for herself.

The king of Angloa stood powerless after the words the woman he loved had left him with. Carlisle stood awkwardly in the open door and looked at the monarch.

"They say you are not to attend the funeral tomorrow, because kings are not to be seen when burying the dead," Carlisle whispered.

Edward had to chuckle ironically at his whole situation. "They put a crown on my head and call me king, yet I am powerless to do as I wish," he growled. He cast a glance at Carlisle. "Let them try and stop me."

* * *

 **A/N: I did the final edits for this chapter at 2:30 in the morning, so that is probably why you WILL find some grammar faults. But I had decided to post it as soon as possible (and I couldn't sleep!) I hope you enjoyed this rather long chapter. Loving your comments and different theories! Keep 'em coming :D I'll try to post chapter 31 tomorrow or the day after :)**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	31. Chapter 31

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 31_

 _April 18_ _th_ _, 1521 – Cadherra_

It was a few hours before dawn when the inhabitants of Adelton marched with the coffin to the chapel. Everyone wore black. They all saw the sea of torches rising from the masses lining the field. All in all, eight thousand people had gathered to say their farewells to the dead and now beloved general of Angloa—not counting the army that had followed William Fell.

The train bore the coffin from the chapel, where Nicholas walked at the front. Tongues wagged, and murmurs rose as none other than William Fell accompanied the friar. The king's presence only added to the gravitas of Edward Cullen's funeral. Kings weren't supposed to be present at any funerals, not even that of his children or his queen. Philip Fell had learned that when his first son, Edmund Fell had passed. William had been communicated the same rules. There was a belief that if the king attended a funeral, he would pass away before his time. Did he listen? Of course not.

The importance of Edward Cullen was so grand to William Fell, that he ignored protocol, and walked at the head of the train with the friar, heading in a slow pace toward the forest. For the next few hours, they would trek the woods until reaching the clearing in the heart of the woods.

It was Raven's Grove—the mysterious and ominous forest that had seen Edward Cullen wounded. And it was now Raven's Grove that would guard her child for the rest of eternity. He would rest in nature, on a plot of land blessed by Nicholas in preparation. A small gravestone would be placed at the foot of the largest tree in that clearing. The Countess of Cadherra expressed that it was what her fiancé had wanted. And no one dared go against her wishes. She was the closest thing Cullen had had for family, everyone said.

The countess walked right behind the king, accompanied by her mother and the strange gypsy that was always seen by Cullen's side. Some said she was his mother, others said she had raised him. But that she should have such a prominent place next to royalty and nobility spoke of her importance to the now dead man.

The train grew long as thousands joined with their torches lighting the way in the dark. They walked for hours in utter silence, the occasional sniveling, cry or lament echoing throughout the crowns. Their hero had passed and the whole country mourned him.

At the break of dawn, when the rays penetrated through the young leaves, they reached the clearing. The coffin was taken to the already prepared grave, opened to display the unnamed soldier wearing Edward's mask. And Nicholas walked up, starting the funeral as everyone gathered. The whole clearing soon filled, and people gathered in and around the tree-line.

Nature sighed, danced beautifully as it seemingly embraced her son. It was a beautiful morning with a pink sky turning blue as the sun rose higher and higher.

The king was the first to walk up to the dead man. It was bizarre, standing before the dead man who was supposed to be himself, bizarre to lay the white flower in his hands. Edward looked at the masked man and then around himself. He saw the mourners all around and only then realized the people there had truly come to mourn Cullen, not to get a glimpse at his corpse. He realized the people had truly come to care about him as Edward Cullen. But the journey with the mask was over, and in the end, his destiny had forced him into the role of the king. He would always be Edward Cullen deep within his heart, but never in the eyes of his people. He was certain that they'd soon forget about the masked man anyway.

"Rest easy, my friend," he mumbled, as a final goodbye to the mask. He paid his respects and walked back.

Everyone drew a collective breath as the Countess of Cadherra walked up to her fiancé—the marriage that never was hung tensely in the air. For, of course, they did not know that she had already married him—or William Fell, that was.

Isabella looked down at the corpse, let the wind play with her hair, stood there a long while, drinking in the final sight of an epic period of her life—an age that drew to its end. It had been short-lived, but so full of passion, adventure, and life. She could not help but smile as a few tears streamed down her cheeks. She would do it all again if it meant meeting Edward, if it meant sharing those nights in his or her bed. She would remember their time together as the best time of her life.

Her hand went discreetly to her belly. She knew what she carried inside it, she had known for the past month. The night before her departure to Cadherra had been a passionate night. But it had also born fruit—something she had feared couldn't happen ever since she'd fallen ill from the poison.

Isabella would retain something from her time by his side. And when it was time, she would have to announce what she carried, and she would bring their child to the world. She lamented that her child might grow up not ever knowing what a wonderful its father had been.

And she would tell him when the time was right—when the war was over.

The crowd started singing a lament for his passing. It echoed in the forest as it would echo in a cathedral. For he was to be buried in the church of nature. She joined the singing as she took her place next to the king. Thousands of people sang the sad tune until it changed into another one.

Isabella noted that it was first those who had been present at the Singing Battle for Adelton Hall—the first time Alistair had tried to take the castle. And she recognized the words as they slowly spread throughout the crowd until it drenched out the morning birdsong. It had been the song of hope when Edward Cullen had first arrived with William Fell and the southern lords in tow. It was only fitting that it should now also be used to bid him farewell.

 _"There are my fields and there are my lands,_

 _And there is the place where my bridal bed stands._

 _"There is the place where my true love does lie,_

 _With whom I have sworn to live and to die."_

Many in that crowd looked at Isabella as if the song tied in directly with her. And in a sense, it echoed her life perfectly. But she was not in a coffin next to her love, she stood here, now alone, pained and broken before him.

 _"Here I was born, and here I was raised,_

 _And here is where my courtly garments were made._

 _"Here lives my father, and here lives my mother,_

 _And here are my sister and brother."_

They finished the tune, the civilians, peasants, townsfolk, farmers, aristocrats, nobles, and soldiers all bid their farewell from the celebrated General Edward Cullen.

For he was gone.

* * *

Later that same evening, William Fell prepared once more to march on the north. He had managed, with much help from Fawkes, Saxton, and Raleigh to spur the men. Some had been hesitant to continue the battle.

Saxton had gone to Rosalie's tomb and spoken to her, knowing she listened to him from up above. He had strolled around the castle, then looked at Raven's Grove, reminiscing the olden days.

He happened upon Lady Swan, dressed in black, echoing her fiancé.

"My lady," he bowed to her.

"My lord," she bowed back. "I wish you good fortune in your fight up north," she mumbled.

Saxton stared at her for a while. "I had a bad feeling when he left our camp, you know," he murmured, afraid to disturb the peace in that hallway.

She nodded slowly. "I hope you will follow your instinct more often in the future, Saxton."

"I have a bad feeling about Wessport as well," he continued, cutting into her sentence before she could continue. She didn't exactly know what he meant by those words. But it was true that Beauchamp and Victoria now amassed their army into one, ready to take on Safeira, only that William Fell intended to meet them on the plains outside of the old capital Wessport.

"Brute strength will not win us the old capital back. Many will die, I think," he said. There was a haunted look in his eyes, and Isabella started growing pale.

"My lord," she curtsied, wanting to get away from those ominous words as soon as possible. She could feel his eyes digging holes into her neck and quickened her step.

 _April 19_ _th_

It was one day before leaving for Wessport, all twelve thousand men, not knowing what awaited them. The lords were jittery, hoping they could raise the morale of the men before getting to the field of Wessport.

Isabella Swan was sitting in her castle, haunted by Saxton's words. She felt at a loss; like she was useless not doing anything. She knew she could help as well.

What she had set out to do more than a year prior was now completed. Her father was buried, he had found peace. Her name was restored to its former glory. Yet she had lost a lot the past few months.

She caressed her belly while Alice sat by the fire, sewing a piece of her damask gown, to let the seams out by request of her friend. In a few months, her pregnancy would be visible, and Isabella needed to pick a moment to announce it—an adequate moment.

"Someone told me Andrea Coticelli is a famous seamstress in Wessport now, even in all this mess," Alice said.

"Wasn't she kicked out?"

"She has managed to find her way back," the confidant smiled. "And I heard that Simon Rajac has not been seen in weeks," the maid continued gossiping. Isabella knew the reason. Edward had told her. Simon had tried to poison her and failed. She also knew why Edward had not executed him. The countess couldn't blame him, she knew the reason.

Amalia Rajac was still a prisoner of Victoria's. Still locked up in Wessport.

She wrinkled her nose at the thought of that vile queen popped into her mind. "I hope Victoria suffers humiliation and pain when all this is done." She had frequently expressed her hatred for the queen, but lately, she did not know why she felt so empty whenever she thought of her. Isabella had confided in Alice about Braun, how she had buried her dagger in him. How satisfying it had felt. And she had also confided in how much she wanted to do the same to the queen. Alice had never said anything, but she saw something in the depths of her eyes that spoke otherwise.

"Do you really think revenge is still the answer?" Alice suddenly asked, stopping the needle from going through the fabric.

Isabella grimaced in irritation and pain. "It is the only thing I've known since I found out about my father's death."

Her friend put aside the garment and went to sit closer to her. "You have gone through a lot, Isabella. Is it not time to let go and, maybe someday, forgive?"

The countess looked at her friend and confidant like she was insane. "How could I ever forgive the woman who had my father killed?" She fiddled with the fabric of her dress as her eyes drifted to the window. The countess took in the emerging colors of spring. Angloa was waking up from its deep slumber. "She tried to have me killed but took the life of her own sister instead. And because of her and Alistair, I have lost _him_."

Alice looked at the picture of her friend. She expected to find defeat, heart-wrenching sorrow and pain. What she saw was a woman sitting in the light of the sun next to the window, taking in the beauty of a blue sky and the immensity it held. What she saw was a woman contemplating her life and what would now follow.

"If you knew how this would all end, would you do it again?" Alice asked her.

Chocolate orbs scanned the roof of the forest, a forest which now housed the soul of her dead love. "Yes," she answered in a breathless whisper. Her face met Alice's. "After everything—all this pain—I'd go through it again, Alice," she answered with a smile. Alice saw the countess' hand rest on her belly and she _knew_ what it housed. Isabella hadn't told her, hadn't shared her secret. But she saw in the way she mindlessly stroked it with such care and love that it couldn't be anything else.

"Vengeance only blackens the soul. After all of this, do you not wish for inner peace?" her confidant asked.

"Peace." The countess savored the word. It seemed so out of reach that she wondered if she'd ever truly feel it—see it. Her heart skipped a beat. "I could only find peace if Victoria didn't breathe anymore—"

"It will never satisfy you, it will never bring the closure you seek," Alice interrupted.

The brown orbs found her and there was a wave of contained anger within them. "What would you know, Alice?"

Alice put down needle and fabric. She seemed to hesitate. Could she tell this to Isabella? Maybe; she trusted in her.

"You know, I never really knew my father. He was never in the picture," she began. "And no one in my family would speak of him. It was like mentioning his name was as severe as mentioning the devil." She smoothed out a wrinkle in her dress, her brow wrinkling.

Her breath hitched slightly in her throat.

"I was conceived because my father violently forced himself on my mother."

She didn't look up to meet Isabella's face, instead, she continued with her tale.

"My mother had me and raised me far away from him. She never told me once what he had done to her. And whenever I would ask about him, she'd only say he couldn't be with us. After a while, I stopped asking. My uncle got drunk one evening and he let it slip what had really happened between my parents." Alice looked up and locked her eyes with Isabella. "You can imagine the horror that was for a thirteen-year-old," she said.

Isabella was mute before such a revelation. She imagined it must have turned Alice's life upside down. "Alice, I never knew…"

Her friend smiled, faintly at first. "When I first found out I was furious with him, with my mother as well—for not telling me. And that anger grew to a need for revenge. I wanted to avenge what my mother had gone through so bad that I sought him out," she continued.

Isabella started worrying where her story was going.

"I let that hatred consume me throughout the years. I didn't have a dagger that symbolized my will for revenge as you do," she said, pointing at Isabella's thigh where she knew the countess hid the Damascus blade. "But I had this darkness in my heart that I thought would only go away if I found my father and ended his life, for the sake of my mother." The noise of daily life burrowed through the thick walls of the castle, reaching them. "I had a chance once. I saw him. It disgusted me that he was my blood. It made me feel so dirty and I wanted him gone. I'm ashamed to say that there was a point in my life where I wished my father were dead," she whispered in confession. "Eventually, a few years later, my mother found out that I knew. And she sat me down and she asked me to forget about my father."

"Your mother forgave him?"

"I think she let her resentment and anger toward him go away. She said that what he put her through was horrible, humiliating. She said that she went through a lot after what he'd done to her."

"I am sorry, Alice," Isabella whispered.

"When I was born, when she had me, my mother said the pain of what he'd done eventually went away. The open wound closed. She still has the scars of what he did as those actions can never be taken away, but she says that she is able to forget him because of me." Alice's eyes were glazed over. "She said she couldn't hate him anymore because of her love for me. And she said I shouldn't hate him either. And I eventually realized that he wasn't worth it. By the end, I grew to pity him, because he found himself all alone while I had my family and my mother, and she had us. That man died a few years back, in the war. I do not miss him, but the knowledge of his death wasn't a great relief for me like I thought it would have been. The news that he was gone only made me realize what a pitiful life he'd lived, and _that_ finally gave me peace."

She finished her story and waited for Isabella to digest it all. The countess looked at her hands, felt the weight of Zoráida's blade against her thigh.

"I know what Victoria has done against you—against many—is far worse. I know that letting go of your hatred for her is difficult. But believe me when I say that killing her is not the answer, Isabella," she said.

"I am sorry about your father and about what he did to your mother, Alice. I am glad your family overcame it. But you are right, what Victoria has done to my family, to Saxton, to His Majesty, to Rosalie and…to Edward is…unforgivable. I cannot even begin to think of a single thing I'd forgive her for. Her actions have brought on a rift in this country. She has delivered a rift unto me as well. Edward is gone because of her and Alistair. I could never overcome that," she whispered, almost afraid of her own emotions.

"Edward lives on in you, in all of us," Alice continued. "Angloa never knew of a man like him, and I doubt it ever will again. You may not know it, but he is so…admired now." A look stretched across Alice's eyes. "He sacrificed everything to save Adelton, and everyone knows it."

Isabella let a sad smile touch her features. It hadn't been Edward who'd sacrificed his life for her that day. It had been Jacob, and the fact that the mask was now taking on all the honor, made her suffer even more for her fallen friend. "He wasn't the only one," she whispered.

"No, he wasn't. But everything else he has done; his victories, his battles, what he stood for, how he saved you when Braun captured you—it all accumulates into a man that was larger than life. And the man who everyone once feared because they thought him ugly or disfigured, is now more than his face or looks." Alice paused, hesitant as she looked at Isabella's belly. "And he left more than just his actions and ideals behind," she said, her eyes remaining on the countess' belly. It was still flat now, but in a few months, it would start showing.

"If you had never been brought to Wessport because of what Victoria did to your family, you would probably never had been forced to marry him. You would have married another nobleman's son. The love you two felt: that would never have happened either," Alice continued.

Isabella started feeling torn now. "But should my father and all those souls have died then, only so that I might have been with Edward?" she whispered. "That isn't right either."

"We cannot change the past," Alice answered. "I told you all of this because I know what you would do with your dagger if you ever had the chance. I told you all of this in hopes it would stop you from committing a mistake that would haunt you for the rest of your life."

Isabella looked out the window once more. "Tomorrow William Fell takes his army to Wessport," she said.

"It will be a massacre."

"If Edward Cullen's soldiers follow William, they stand a small chance at victory."

"They will, they have to," Alice said.

The countess didn't answer. Her chocolate orbs kept staring out the window in silent contemplation.

* * *

The Countess of Cadherra still dressed in mourning. He didn't like her in black, it gave her such a somber air. Isabella had always been his light. And now her flame seemed to extinguish.

The king walked into the chapel with heavy steps. There was not another soul in their direct vicinity, only him and the countess. She didn't react as he walked in, she kept her eyes glued to the altar.

When he kneeled next to her in prayer, she arched her eyebrows in surprise. "What are you doing here?" she whispered to him.

"Gathering my wits," he whispered back. Somewhere in the background, Friar Nicholas was lighting more wax candles as they neared nightfall.

"For tomorrow?" she asked.

"For tomorrow."

"They say Beauchamp has more than ten thousand."

"The numbers are quite even," Edward answered back distantly. "But he will have the upper ground, more weapons, and Wessport backing him."

"What will you do with Victoria, when you take Wessport?"

William Fell looked at the altar as well, stared at its intricate design, wondering if he would find the answer there. " _If_ we take Wessport." He had avoided the question entirely.

"You will," she trailed off. "And after, you will rule Angloa as a great king, I know it." She didn't breach the subject of them being together. But it tore at her, knowing theirs was a bleak future.

He seemed to avoid it as well. His eyes finally found hers and regarded her. Edward looked like he wanted to reach for her, to brush a stray lock away from her face. But he fought against his impulse.

 _April 20_ _th_

She watched, together with the rest of Adelton Hall, how they left through Raven's Grove. In the end, twelve thousand men made up a vast army. The soldiers were downtrodden after the death of their great general. Morale was low, too low. They needed to be alert for the battle that would take place. They did not yet know where William Fell's army would clash with Victoria's. They suspected Beauchamp would wait for them right outside of Wessport, backed by the walls from the city and the higher ground.

Isabella was backed by her mother, Alice, Alan Moore, and Sofia. They all took note of her restlessness.

"They will win, Isabella," her mother cooed.

"Besieging a city after such a rough fight? Would they truly?" she asked her mother. Everyone—even Lord Athar—had gone with the army. Only the women, children, wounded, and elders stayed behind.

"When I fought for Edward Cullen, he always had a plan," Alan trailed off.

"But he isn't in that army anymore," Alice said. She didn't know, of course, that William Fell was Cullen, and that he now headed the army.

"Of course," Alan quickly filled in. "I am certain His Majesty will find a way. He has General Fawkes by his side. Even Lord Launël is helping with the planning."

Isabella looked at Sofia. She had been silent and evasive for weeks. And after Jacob had passed, she had shut down even more. When Edward had left, she hadn't had the chance to say her goodbyes. How strange wouldn't it look if the gypsy who kept ties with the masked man suddenly approached the king? Sofia had lost him as well as Isabella. And the few times their eyes had crossed, a silent understanding passed between them.

"He is being stupid," the gypsy cut in with her Spanish accent. The others jumped, hearing her croaking voice for the first time in a long while. Isabella had never seen Sofia so determined before.

"He shouldn't be meeting that Englishman head-on," she continued. Isabella knew the words were directed at her. She was talking about Edward.

"There is little else His Majesty can do—" Alice mumbled. "How do you know what he aims to do up at Wessport?" she wondered.

Alan Moore bit his lip. "I might have overheard their plans," he started. He still feared the stigma of having betrayed his country once. Having shared battleplans with the gyps might not have been the best idea. But he visited her frequently for check-ups on his severed leg and the two had surprisingly gotten along.

"I know what he will do, and it is stupid," Sofia continued. It was only then Isabella noticed it, that the gypsy had her stuff packed and placed next to her feet in a satchel.

"You are leaving?" Isabella asked.

The black eyes of the gypsy caught hers. "Yes."

"Where?"

The winds stirred, the green fields below swayed gently. "For Wessport," she said.

"Why?" asked Renée.

Sofia shifted the weight on her hips. "If Percy Beauchamp is meeting William Fell outside of Wessport, it is probable he won't only take his whole army, but most of the guards within the city as well."

Realization started hitting most of them, except for Alice. "And what does that have to do with you going to Wessport?"

Sofia couldn't help but smile. "There are some citizens there who don't want to wait to be rescued," she continued. "A resistance within its walls, who aim to help His Majesty from within." Isabella's eyes sparkled. Even after the mask was gone, Sofia would do everything she could to help Edward.

"An underground?" Renée asked, astonished. She wondered who was leading it. But Sofia didn't seem willing to answer that. "You are going to help them?"

"I am," Sofia answered.

No one had noticed the spark now alight in Isabella Swan's eyes.

"I am coming with you," Isabella cut in rather quickly.

All attention darted to her in disbelief. Many voiced their disagreement. But the countess kept her gaze steadfast on the gypsy. In her eyes, she was the woman who had loved her adoptive son. She was the only one she needed approval from.

"I don't see why not," Sofia said in her soft honey accent.

"It is dangerous, Isabella," Renée urged. She would not let her daughter go to that infernal city.

Chocolate orbs flashed with fire. "I want to help, I don't want to wait in this castle anymore. This war is almost over, and both sides could win. I want to go to Wessport."

"I am coming with you," Alice said, as determined as her friend.

"Alice, not you too!" Renée exclaimed. She thought herself surrounded by fools.

"Could you give me a moment with my mother?" she asked the group.

"The ship for Wessport leaves tonight, we must be there before nightfall," Sofia said before gathering the other two and leaving the room.

"I know you want me to stay, mother," Isabella said once the door closed.

"You cannot cast everything aside just because Edward is dead!" Renée exclaimed, thinking her daughter was crazy.

"I want to help."

"Then remain here, run this castle—"

"I…I cannot remain in Adelton anymore. It is too painful. Too many people I've cared about have died here," she whispered with a haunted look to her features.

"What will you accomplish if you enter Wessport? If His Majesty loses against Beauchamp you will be trapped there, you might even be discovered by Victoria!"

"If His Majesty loses against Beauchamp, this is the first place Victoria will come for. She _hates_ me, mother. She tried to kill me twice. She killed father. She will burn Adelton down if it means killing me. I will be safer in Wessport than I ever would be here."

Renée was growing desperate. "But I cannot let you go, Isabella!" she cried out. "Please."

She stepped in to hug her mother, the other woman held her close. "I have to do this, mother. I know I'm being selfish. But I have to go with Sofia."

"You are not _him_ ," Renée whispered in her ear. Isabella held her tongue, she knew she wasn't Edward. "I cannot lose you as well," her mother continued.

Isabella remained silent, stoic. She broke the hug and regarded her mother for a long time. And the longer their eyes remained locked, the more Renée realized her daughter had already made up her mind.

It completely crushed her.

Renée finally turned from her, facing the wilderness of Cadherra, its breathtaking beauty. She didn't say anything as her daughter left the room, she only looked at Raven's Grove and silently cried out for her dead husband to watch over their daughter.

 _May 4_ _th_ _– Plains of Wessport_

An army of twelve thousand men could be seen emerging far away in the distance, by the woods, stepping onto the plains outside of Wessport. The platoons had started lining up and Beauchamp growled as he realized the soldiers still fought for William Fell, despite the death of Edward Cullen.

But they could still win this battle. They were better prepared. The field was set with various traps here and there that the novice king wouldn't see coming. Beauchamp hadn't been able to take down Cullen. He would instead be having the honor of unseating the pretender himself.

It was early, and morale was low. During the night, a small platoon had deserted when they saw the epic field awaiting them. They were tired of war, tired of dying. They had fought for Edward Cullen, Lion of the North, not for William Fell. Twelve thousand has been cut down to ten thousand and the lords worried that when Percy Beauchamp displayed the might of his army, they'd have more deserters.

"The men are restless, Sire," Fawkes muttered as he entered the tent that housed the king. His eyes widened when he saw him, but he pressed his lips together.

"Have the platoons prepared. I will ride out in a few minutes. Has Beauchamp started lining up his men?" Edward asked in a rumble.

"Yes," Fawkes said. He didn't know what else to say, seeing the king thus made his eyes widen, and he soon found himself astride his horse, on the left side of the army. Lord Irias and Raleigh took care of the right end. William would oversee the middle. But many wondered if he would ride into the fray. He hadn't lately. He had stayed behind—but, of course, it was expected of him. The man who had led the knights through a passage in Safeira seemed gone. Many soldiers wondered where their warrior king was.

Once Fawkes left, Carlisle entered. He looked at Edward as well. "Should you really be dressed like that?"

"If I'm going to be out there, I want to be comfortable," he muttered back. Edward went for his sword and weighed it in his hand, feeling its familiar weight. Carlisle saw him clench his jaw.

"Jacob's death isn't your fault," he said.

"If I had revealed myself, it would never have happened."

"But we cannot change the past."

Edward sheathed his sword and went for his helmet. "No, we cannot," he said while gripping it under his arm. He stopped by the entrance of the tent. "I will see you on the field, Carlisle," he nodded. They felt the weight of the final battle. A similar feeling had swept over them when they'd fought their final battle at Castell.

It seemed so long ago.

"Aye, my general," Carlisle saluted. After everything they'd gone through, he would always be General Cullen to him before being King William Fell.

* * *

Since almost every able-bodied man was in Beauchamp's army, getting smuggled into the port of Wessport was too easy. Isabella pulled up the hood of her worn cape. She dressed modestly to better blend in, her clothes in cotton and linen, in muted colors. She wore a cap to cover most of her hair, in case she was recognized.

Sofia, Alice, Isabella, and Alan were helped off the boat by the captain himself. Isabella had recognized him the moment she'd stepped on in Coldwick—it had been Lorenzo, Theodore Glovendale's aide in Rome and the man who had taken Edward to Constantinople. She was amazed at the ties Sofia kept with people who had been so relevant in her life for the past year. It was almost ironic that Lorenzo would now take the countess into the enemy's den. He knew of Edward's secret but had never once opened his mouth about it, not even to Glovendale. He knew what she meant to do in Wessport—and he was more than willing to contribute.

They blended into the people who grazed the docks. She had remembered Wessport as a bustling metropolis. But it was so empty now. Had Victoria killed every inhabitant there?

While spring touched Angloa outside of the walls, Wessport had transformed into a gray city. It didn't have the vibrancy of Safeira, it was stark, with narrow streets and smelled of waste. The palace of the city hovered over it and Victoria's presence always threatened. They were met by a hooded man in a small alley by the docks, where the scent of rotten fish was particularly potent. He led them through the murky streets. She trailed behind silently, the only sounds there the footsteps of other pedestrians, agitated horses and Alan's canes as he swung himself forward. Wessport had always been intimidating, but never like this. Whatever light Philip Fell or even Jasper had instilled into it, had been long since extinguished.

They walked through the outer circle, up through winding and narrow streets until arriving at the wall leading to the middle circle, where most merchants and bourgeoise lived. She saw some bodies lining the wall, hanging from their necks as crows feasted on their rotting flesh. Oxidized blood painted the wall. They must have been hanging there since winter—the stench was horrible.

Getting through the entrance to the middle circle wasn't difficult. The guards watching the interior of the city were careless and slipping by them was easy. As they approached the first of many small hills upon which Wessport had been built, she turned around and her eyes widened as she saw the full force of both armies. Lining the wall was Victoria's army together with Beauchamp's forces. Even after their defeats, they still had a large number of men left. But, in the distance, she saw the familiar banners of the south flap. And she even saw the royal coat of arms dance in the wind. The countess was mesmerized by the sight, taken in by what was to come. She had already seen so many battles, she had grown strangely familiar to them. The young woman did not doubt that they'd hear this one as they entered the palace.

The man in the hood whisked them to move further, finally taking them into an abandoned house, going down a few stairs into the cellar.

Isabella took in the murky surroundings, the cramped hallway they had passed, the wall-paper that peeled off the walls. The walls and floors were stained by now years of mold and old dust. Stacked furniture had lined the walls before they entered the cellar.

She recognized the trampled-down earth, the scattered stones that were foundations to old Roman ruins. She saw a table placed in the middle of the room with parchment and some weapons scattered all over it. And there, standing at the head of that table, Isabella perceived a petite woman dressing as frivolous as ever. The bright red hair stood out in the dull colors, the torches and oil lamps reflecting yellow light that danced against the red tresses. Streaks of silver bounced off the warm light of the fire.

"Signora Coticelli," Isabella breathed as she stepped forward and pulled her hood and cap down.

Antonia looked at the countess. There were others in the room, others she didn't recognize. They looked to be workers of the castle. Their eyes drifted to her and she saw it in them, the pity, the pain. There was something unmentioned hanging in the air. She knew it. Edward's death.

"I did not know we'd be graced by your presence, _cara_ ," the Italian said in her silken accent. She took in the rest of the group. "How quaint, you even brought a cripple." Her face soured slightly, and Alan might have taken offense if it weren't for Isabella's small chuckle. She was familiar with Antonia's way, she knew there was no insult meant.

"Only the best, signora," she replied.

Sofia pulled down her hood, her black eyes scouring the room. She walked up to the table, flanked by some burly men. But the more Isabella looked, the more she started recognizing some of them.

"My lady," one bowed as he realized the recognition flash before her eyes.

He was one of the men who had followed Braun from Constantinople after Edward had saved her. She remembered his name.

"Benjamin," she said stiffly, taking a step back in fear. She knew he'd helped Edward after he had been unmasked. Alas, this man _knew_ who had truly hidden behind the mask. There was another handful of them there.

"When we heard of the return of William Fell; that Victoria might be brought down…we dared to return. We stumbled upon Signora Coticelli in Coldwick and kept in touch with Señora Sofia at the start of this year; when the war escalated," he explained to her, trying to make her see that he had chosen her side.

"We stand here, united in resistance because Amalia Rajac managed to sneak out letters to her husband. And to others she trusted as well," Sofia explained as she walked to stand next to Antonia.

The man in the hood who had taken them there stepped into the light and everyone could see the stern features of Simon Rajac. Isabella grew more and more confused. She knew why he had been banished from Safeira by Edward. She knew what he had tried to do to her. Both she and Alice were about to protest when Antonia put up a hand.

"He gathered us all here, had me set up shop here as a ruse, made me come in contact with the queen as her seamstress so that we could have easier access to Amalia. All these months we have worked together. He is the founder of this resistance and whatever sins he has committed, find it in your heart to ignore them—"

"He tried to kill me," she said softly, yet there was an unmistakable shiver to her voice. "And he managed to kill Rosalie Fell, did he tell you that?"

Benjamin cleared his voice. "We have all shared our pasts, the wrongs we have committed. We have been transparent since the start," he underlined. She wondered what else he might have shared. But the small shake of his head made her frantic heart calm down. Nothing about Edward's true identity seemed spilled.

Simon Rajac stepped forward to her. "I do not expect you to forgive me. I was rightfully cast away by His Majesty for what I did," he started. She sensed the guilt lacing his voice as his eyes trailed the floor. "But I wanted to be useful in this war—or at least in finishing it. Can you understand that?" he asked.

Isabella had come all this way because she wanted to help. Yes, she could understand.

It was only then that she realized that their plan had not yet been revealed.

"What do you aim to do?" she asked.

Sofia stepped over to the table and rolled up what looked like an interior layout of Wessport Palace. Antonia walked up next to her. "It has taken us months. But together with Amalia and another key informant in the palace, we have found a way inside," she said. "We needed all the pieces to fall into place—we counted on William Fell showing up here with his armies and drawing out Beauchamp. While they fight each other, we can slip into the palace and force the queen to surrender," Antonia said.

"It is a good plan." They did not mention more, and she wondered if they had planned it more in detail. When she asked, they had nothing more to give her.

"I am afraid it will not work," Isabella retorted darkly after having tried to find out more about what exactly they aimed to do in the palace.

She received questioning glances.

"That woman has made up her mind, she will cling onto power like a leech. You will not be able to just walk up to her and force her to surrender like that," she explained.

"How do you know that is how she would react?" Benjamin asked.

"Because despite being mad, Victoria is still smart enough to know what cards she holds. And she knows there is a chance Beauchamp will win on that field—"

"Not if we make her surrender first," someone else said.

"Which she will not do, not in her right mind," the Countess of Cadherra spoke. "I wouldn't do it," she added.

They knew she was right, but what else could they do? They wanted to do this to help William Fell win the battle and secure Wessport. No one had actually spoken of killing the queen. They had no idea how many guards were in that palace with her, their informants had given them different numbers, and there might be more or fewer now, depending on how many had ridden out to battle.

"Then what do you suggest?" they asked. Isabella looked at them, her eyes trailed over each individual. It wasn't like she held the answer more than they did. She knew that there was a Damascus blade pressing against her outer thigh waiting to be used. She knew she couldn't say it. They didn't need to know what she truly wanted.

"Well, we have a way to get in, undetected," she started. And it was only then that they once more took a look at the layout of the castle. "I think I know what we could do."

* * *

Both sides had lined up—a vast field the only thing separating them. Percy Beauchamp stared at the men who had come. They were fewer and it made him smirk. Reports that some soldiers had deserted during the night reached him. It seemed that sending his own people to infiltrate and spread doubt among the ranks had worked.

The day was gray, with banners flapping in a strong and forceful wind. There would be no meeting with the other side before the battle. Only the fray, only the fight.

The soldiers, officers, and lords saw Carlisle Chaeld come riding from behind the ranks. His was a familiar face that settled them. The right hand of Edward Cullen. But where was the king? The hour grew dark, and some soldiers had a mind to run away. Where was William Fell?

They heard a horse snort as he galloped forth, not far behind Carlisle. Eyes widened, and mouths fell open when they saw their monarch. For the first time, he did not bear the royal armor or the helmet with the crown to signal who he was. He did not seat his white stallion as he had before.

William Fell came to stand before his army, seating the horse that had previously belonged to Edward Cullen; Cid.

The lords of Angloa beheld their monarch, contemplated the message he was sending. The soldiers' eyes lit up. William dressed in black armor, just like Edward Cullen. And they took the gesture as a nod to the fallen hero. William hadn't gone up there in magnificent or regal splendor, he had come bared before them remembering a man whom everyone had admired.

But the reason Edward dressed in black was not to pay tribute to himself, it was to remember Jacob's sacrifice. And it was the only way he knew how.

His hair was tousled by the breeze, his face clean-shaven. He truly was larger than life seating that horse, and he somehow looked so comfortable on it. William Fell had stepped aside for Edward Cullen, for the man with no lineage, the man who had sacrificed his life to save his love and the victims of Victoria.

If the soldiers and officers had doubted before, they didn't doubt now. Their king had truly acknowledged one of their own, a soldier. As he stopped Cid and contemplated them—not showering them with any unnecessary and grand speeches about victory—the lancers, foot soldiers, and mounted knights all brought up their weapons to the sky just as the king unsheathed his sword.

"Audeamus!" the soldiers cried out, one final time, for their fallen general. They were not aware that he could hear them, that he sat before them. But the king bowed his head as he heard those words now directed at _him_.

He had earned their respect by joining them as a soldier as well.

"Audeamus!" they all cried out again, joined now by the Angloan lords, not believing what they were witnessing. It was truly a magical moment; like they were somehow witnessing history being made.

Percy Beauchamp soured when he heard the chant, when he heard "let us dare" roll over the plains and sweep over his army. He could not crush the war machine of William Fell—the war machine Edward Cullen had formed. Their morale could not be broken, and it seemed to frighten some of his own soldiers.

There was a moment of complete silence, where they could have heard a needle drop in the middle of the field.

Then the whoosh of arrows came sailing through the skies until both sides growled and shouted as they charged.

* * *

Victoria sat on her throne, the room completely empty. As empty as the look in her eyes. She dressed in mourning for the only man she'd truly ever cared about. Now he was dead.

Everyone was dead.

A part of her didn't care if Percy won the battle against the pretender. She had destroyed everything to sit on that throne, and she had started realizing her mistake. There was nothing left within her, no will to go on.

Her palace—once vibrant and full of life with laughter and gossip lining the walls during the times of Jasper—was a shell, a tomb, a mausoleum. Her head rested against the side of her throne, her red tresses slipping out of their pins.

She heard faint steps near the closed doors leading into the vast throne room. Someone pushed against them, forcing the wooden doors opened, forcing the light to enter with them. She didn't bother to look up at first, wondering who would dare come disturb her.

The steps continued up along the marble floor, the klick of the heels echoing eerily in her head.

Victoria managed to drag her eyes away from one of the blocked windows, black tarp obscuring what little natural light came into view.

A lone figure stood before her, bathed in the faint light entering from outside the room. For a moment, she wondered if she had died and an angel had come. But then Victoria realized she wouldn't go to heaven after everything she had done.

She looked closer, finding enough strength to sit up straight on the throne.

She was met with the blazing chocolate orbs of Isabella Swan, standing proudly before her. The queen detected something else within those eyes.

And, in her right hand, she saw a dagger in a white sheath.

* * *

 **A/N: Getting good at updating quicker hehe. Again, I e** **dited this faster than normal. That is why the last chapter that a plot fault in the writing that had passed me by as I was editing (when Isabella says she married Edward Cullen when she actually legally married William Fell, so I changed that. Only a few words, thanks to those who let me know!) Thank you all so much for all the reviews on the last chapter!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	32. Chapter 32

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 32_

 _May 4_ _th_ _, 1521 – Wessport_

Her gown was a mixture between burgundy and brown, in coarse cotton and wool. She wore a white chemise and petticoat layers under it. A gray shawl swept around her upper body.

Isabella Swan did not look especially noble then. She had come before Victoria in modest apparel.

Both women stared at each other, they could hear the battle raging on in the far distance, hear how both their sides were killing one another. Isabella Swan didn't look afraid, she didn't seem threatened by the powerful throne, the fine garments or the vast throne room so shrouded in darkness. Her presence had brought with it the missing light of the palace.

Christine and the others had slipped into one of the passages going under the castle, their existence so obscure that there could be no chance of the queen knowing they were there. At the other end, Monica Savoie and Amalia Rajac had met them. The moment Amalia had gotten to see with her own eyes that Isabella lived, she was beyond herself with relief and joy. And she also rejoiced at seeing her husband.

Isabella was allowed to venture alone to the throne room while the others followed the plan.

"It ends today," the queen's voice echoed. There was a certain finality to her words and no one, not even she herself, knew what she truly meant by that.

Isabella looked at the woman she had vowed to hate, stared down the queen that had stolen everything from her. But she only saw the miserable eyes, afraid, enveloped by darkness. She squeezed the dagger and Alice's voice echoed in the back of her mind.

"You had my father killed," Isabella said.

Victoria scowled at the statement.

"You tried to have me killed," she continued.

No reaction.

"You had your sister killed—"

"That was an accident," the broken woman before her spat. Something in her voice sounded fragile, but it did not break.

"You had Edward killed."

Victoria was about to snap at her when she stopped herself, her features twisted painfully as she was reminded of what she had lost.

"Come to avenge their deaths?" the queen finally managed. She tried not to show it, but she looked so tired, so defeated. She knew that, even if she had the upper hand, even if Beauchamp won, she would have lost everything in that war. She clung onto the armrests. "You know, you remind me of me…when I was younger." She didn't expect the Swan girl would understand what she meant by those words.

"Your sister told me the same thing," Isabella answered. She looked at the knife, felt the weight of Braun's death in it. "When Braun kidnapped me, I was wounded on the ship leaving Wessport. He stopped in a port in southern Spain where a young woman tended briefly to my wounds," she said, deep in thought. The queen had not yet tried to call for the guards; as if she wanted to wait and see what Isabella Swan would do. They both ignored the screams of death passing over the walls in the distance.

"I had no hope to cling onto then. I was lost. And the only thing she could give me was this knife," she continued, looking at the elegant craftsmanship of the weapon. "And I think it saved me, saved me mentally at least. Because it was my source of hope, my source of confidence." She met Victoria's eyes. "Not the knife in itself, but more what it represented, and the person it tied to," she finished.

The queen eyed the knife. She had never had something like that when her husband had mistreated her. The only weapon she'd ever used was poison. But that poison had slowly turned on her and consumed her life and those around her.

"With this knife I killed Braun," Isabella said. She let the words hang in the air, she wanted to see how Victoria would react.

Victoria Fell didn't show any reaction, only stared the younger woman down. Her golden eyes went from the woman to the Damascus blade. She got up from her throne, the chair squeaking in protest, the wood protesting loudly as she got off it. She walked down the steps until standing right before her, almost as if challenging her to plunge the knife into her as well.

"I hope you've made your choice, because I am certain my guards will have noticed by now that something is wrong; noticed that you have infiltrated my palace. And when they do, I will not be merciful."

Isabella gripped the knife. "I wanted to kill you, for everything you've done to me and my family." But she shook her head and took a step back, sheathing the blade. "Despite it all, your actions lead me to Edward. And despite the fact that he is gone, I would go through it all again if it meant having gotten the chance to meet him."

It was not the reaction the queen had expected. "I had your father killed, I tortured your mother with poison here. I have killed many people you care about. Wouldn't it feel better if you took it out on me?" Isabella could hear the hint of desperation in the voice. It was almost as if the queen _wanted_ to be stabbed.

She shook her head. "I will not kill you Victoria. There are consequences to your actions that you will have to deal with and live with for the rest of your life, and I almost pity you for it." Isabella realized she had needed this catharsis. The coldness in herself had slowly started depleting and her willingness to turn away from murderous revenge was already healing the broken pieces of her heart.

The queen growled. She recollected herself and rose an eyebrow as a mask of indifference spread on her features. None of them had noticed that the battle seemed to have ceased. No one noticed how eerily quiet it was.

"I wonder if your friends would dare continue this fight if they knew I held you as hostage here. You shouldn't have entered here in good faith, thinking that after our little chat I'd simply allow you to leave through the wretched hole you came from."

Isabella, in turn, rose an eyebrow. "I never came here in good faith, Victoria. Do you _really_ think I'd be that stupid?"

Only then did the queen notice the silence. The battle seemed over, but how?

"Before I even came here, my friends evaded whatever guards remain here and raised a white flag over Wessport signaling your surrender. By now Beauchamp should have backed down unless William Fell hasn't already taken him out."

The queen growled. "That man, that pretender is _not_ my brother!"

They could hear an ensemble of steps from beyond the doors. There were people on approach to the throne room. It could either be Percy Beauchamp, who had disregarded the queen's surrender and won against the king's armies. Or it could be the victorious king, entering the palace of his father. Whatever the case, Isabella did not let the worry show on her features.

"He will enter here as more than your equal. He will enter here as _your_ king and once you see him, see the resemblance, you will regret ever having tried to kill him."

The doors pushed open once more, the now bright and contrasting light spilling in, blinding them. Some soldiers who had accompanied moved to the windows to remove the drapes so that the sun might peek through.

Victoria looked at the silhouettes in confusion as they invaded her throne room. But when she recognized the white hair and goatee of Athar and the proud bearing of Fawkes, she knew it was over for her.

Both men flanked another figure that neared her. And as it did so, Isabella Swan went into a deep curtesy as the steps echoed in the vast room.

Victoria fell to her knees in shock when she saw his face, saw the features she had had nightmares about for the last few months.

Behind her was their father's portrait hanging on the wall, almost the mirror image. William Fell walked up to both women, casting what appeared to be an angry glance at the countess. His handsome face came to rest on the queen. He finally stood before his sister without the mask and he could see her eyes water, could see the horror of recognition pass over their features.

"How fitting, she is already kneeling before her king!" one of the lords mused behind him.

No one spoke a while after that.

The silence in that room was ripped violently as she started laughing. First, it was contained, but the laughter grew louder and madder until it stopped as quickly as it had started. They heard the desperation and pain in her voice, because Victoria could only see her father in his face, nothing else.

Edward disregarded the laughter and the lord's statement and looked at his sister who could not take her golden eyes away from him. She saw the deep orbs, gazed into his endless eyes. And after a while, her glazed eyes released the tears in a steady stream. No sobs accompanied them, only the tears.

"Percy Beauchamp is dead," he said to her in a smooth and velvety voice that also contained the weight one expected from a king. "Matthew Alistair is imprisoned in Adelton Hall," he continued.

She swallowed hard and knew she could slip away with dignity or be taken screaming. "It seems General Cullen managed to teach you a thing or two before he perished," Victoria said in a stronger voice than expected. He had never seen someone look so defeated or so broken. But it seemed like the fact that it was over for her, brought a sense of relief. "Or he taught it to her," she said looking at Isabella. "Who else would think to infiltrate a palace and trick the army with a flag of surrender?" she asked.

William Fell looked at Isabella Swan, realizing it was she who had had the white flag rise. She had bought them time and eventually, their victory as several of Beauchamp's platoons had automatically ceased fighting. But not the Englishman, he had not stopped, not until Edward himself had pushed his sword through him.

"It is over," he finally said. Both to himself, but also to Isabella and Victoria.

In the vastness of a stone throne room, lined in blue fabric that draped the pillars leading up to the throne, a queen had sunken to her knees in the shadow of portraits lining the wall. Kings and queens of yore stared down harshly at the murderous woman who had almost brought a nation to its knees and stripped away its independence because of her selfishness and her blindness. The vast portrait of Philip Fell stared down as his son towered over his oldest daughter and her melancholy sigh escaped while sunbeams penetrated through the windows.

The scene was bizarre.

 _May 7_ _th_ _– Wessport_

The following days were strange, the citizens of Wessport adjusting to the new changes. The cross of St. George was taken down and exchanged for the Fell royal coat of arms to once again flap in the spring winds, bringing with them the warmth of the south.

It was over.

It was finally over.

William Fell had not yet processed that he had won.

The battle for Wessport was the final one of the war. It had been brutal, and his side would probably have lost, if not the Countess of Cadherra and the resistance in Wessport had infiltrated the palace. There had been many who had perished in battle.

Saxton had died while fighting Beauchamp. It had been swift, a cut to the throat. His jaw tensed as he looked back to that moment. The king had held him hard in his arms as Saxton clung onto life desperately. Emmett wasn't finished with the world, there were still things left for him to do. He had stared into the forest depths, mouthing Alistair. He had never gotten his vengeance, and the need for it had darkened his life. Saxton had lost much, and he would never get to see the country William would build. The king had felt a rip in his soul as he watched another man he'd known as a brother in arms perish as well.

And right before Saxton's light was extinguished, he had mouthed _Audeamus_ and given his salute. It was his way of telling the monarch that he knew. It had shocked him, but he had nodded in acceptance. Saxton had died on that field, in the mud, like a true soldier.

Edward hoped he would find peace at last.

All enemies had been brought to their knees, and what remained was the rebuilding of the country. Wessport would take the longest in recovering. Edward knew it could not be the capital, not after everything he had witnessed there. Safeira would be his new seat, where he would rule, the shining beacon of the west.

It was an early afternoon and the courtiers had all gathered in the throne room upon the king's request. There were still some lose ends. And he meant to take care of them, certain there would be some surprised people once the day was over.

He seated the throne alone now.

There was no more masked man by his right side.

Nor a queen.

He received court and they all murmured, wondering what the king would proclaim. It was the first official gathering of all the courts ever since Victoria's defeat. Many knew there remained matters and disputes to settle.

First, Lord Quinn was called to come to stand before him. The lord kneeled in acceptance of his monarch.

"Because of your honor and realizing where your fealties lay so early in this conflict Lord Quinn, I acquit you of any charges of treason. You walk from Wessport a free man, with your honor intact and your lands and titles as well," the monarch proclaimed. Quinn never thought he'd escape from the stigma that he'd once fought for Victoria. He bowed deeper in gratitude.

He walked down the red carpet and gave Isabella Swan and Alan Moore a small smile as he came to stand next to them.

William Fell nodded in approval. There were more to deal with. His eyes swept over the room as he called another name. "Alan Moore," he said as his full voice echoed.

The one-legged man swallowed hard as some eyes narrowed while he walked up to the throne with his crutches. He suspected he would be sent away.

"For the man who betrayed his country, but then found his conscience, I pardon you," said the monarch. The king rose up and walked to stand before Alan who waited on the final step of the throne. Edward nodded to Glovendale, who came up to him with a sword. "Kneel," the king said. Alan's eyes widened, and his mouth opened slightly. He finally found his senses and managed, with great difficulty, to kneel

"For his valor at the Singing Battle of Adelton Hall, for his fealty and bravery in helping us at the fight for Safeira, and for his assistance in the surrender of Wessport, I hereby dub thee _Sir_ Alan Moore, knight of this realm," he spoke up. Alan felt the flat side of the sword press against his shoulders. "Rise, Sir Alan, and know that the crown forgives your involvement in this affair after what you have done to help us," the king said.

Nicholas stood there with a smile splitting his face and tears in his eyes. Alan got up with some help from Lord Durun and Quinn and those who knew him, cheered for him loudly.

"The crown calls for the Countess of Cadherra next," his voice sounded loud. The small murmurs, whispers, and cheers died down instantly at the mention of her name.

Isabella Swan got flustered and looked around, feeling the stares trail behind her. The beautiful woman looked ethereal as she walked up to the king, still in mourning after losing her fiancé.

She stood before him, wanting nothing more than to kiss him, wanting nothing more than to be in his embrace. He had been angry with her after the battle. But that anger had subsided. Her disappearing thirst for revenge and the fact that the war was over made the couple grow warm toward each other. Despite the difficulty they found themselves in, they had made peace. In the end, in private, he had given her his deepest gratitude.

In that throne room it was different. They were not supposed to be well acquainted. Just as she kept her mask on, he did as well. Every inch of her shivered in anticipation of even feeling a microscopical touch from him and it drove her crazy.

"I know Victoria Fell already proclaimed it, but I wish to reinforce her statement," the king said. "Charles Swan was a brilliant man who gave his life to reveal the truth, who was sentenced and ordered executed by my cousin, Jasper Fell, under false pretenses. I hereby officially restore him to his previous standing, and proclaim him, just as I proclaim Emmett Saxton, as a true hero of this realm."

He looked at her with intense eyes as those there present cheered in agreement. Isabella Swan smiled back. Relief could not begin to describe what she felt. It was truly official now.

After, Edward called up Sofia, Benjamin, and Antonia as the heads of the resistance to thank them for what they had done and to acknowledge their part in the battle.

Lord Rajac was called up and he wasn't exiled, as had previously been said. Alas, he lost his holding as Count of Labridia. He stepped down as lord, gave up his title as high nobility and settled for a baronet. Alas, the ex-count didn't protest. He was merely happy to still be allowed to remain with his wife, Amalia. And he cared little that he had lost his power, he was still allowed to live in his castle, retaining enough lands to sustain himself and his family. The rest of his riches would go to the crown, to rebuild the country.

Monica Savoie was acknowledged as well, but her previous and obvious involvement could not be ignored. The death of her husband gathered some pity. While she had helped Isabella and her friends enter the palace, she had also helped to conspire and murder. She was exiled, and the woman protested loudly as she was urged out.

Lord Launël saw a similar fate as Rajac, alas his was far more severe. His involvement in the plot meant not only forfeiting his lands but his entire title and heritage. Launël was no longer a nobleman, an aristocrat. He was excommunicated from court and given a small sum to start over. He was, however, not allowed to leave the country, for suspicion he might conspire again. He was a suspect and basically a prisoner free to roam Angloa as he wished, as long as he had his escort of soldiers.

The lord protested, but when the king said he was lucky he wasn't thrown into a dungeon and was still given enough freedom, Launël shut his mouth.

Next, the king called out for Viscount Durun. "To the man who held the north in our darkest hour, to the man who realized the true threat and never backed down in the hour of need, the western lands taken from the previous Duke Launël are hereby forfeited to Lord Durun. I thus proclaim you Duke of Galia."

Durun couldn't believe it. He stood there for a while, completely dumbfounded until he remembered to bow before his king. "Your Majesty does me a great honor," the new duke said. "And I shall always be loyal to you," he continued.

Carlisle Chaeld was the next to be called to stand before the monarch. "You stood loyally by the side of justice and fought along great men. Baron Chaeld, I hereby offer you the title of Duke of Sorossa," the king said. "Lord Emmett Saxton had no children, but I know he would accept you taking over his lands as lord. There could be no one more honorable, nor anyone more up to the task," he said. Carlisle had never thought Edward would use his power to further him up in society. He blushed, not knowing what to do, so he awkwardly stumbled and thanked the king.

Finally, the king elevated Jacob Black as a hero who fought and died for his country. He reminded them of the sacrifice the young man had made and that his efforts should not be overshadowed by another man. When he mentioned Edward Cullen, everyone in that room clapped at the first sound of his name. He was acknowledged by the king as well and he proclaimed their fallen general a hero of Angloa, just as he had with Jacob Black, Emmett Saxton, and Charles Swan.

When he walked up to seat the throne once more, the court exclaimed and rejoiced. "Long live the king!" echoed in that room.

The war was over.

 _May 23_ _rd_ _– Safeira_

A few weeks had passed where the sole focus had been on rebuilding the country once again. Edward had traveled the country, making sure the lords of the land followed his instructions. The royal treasury had been depleted by Victoria in her efforts to ward off her brother. He made sure to secure funding so that the restoration could begin.

The once queen was taken to Safeira and put into the dungeons there, together with Alistair; also stripped of his titles and rank. In the lowest dungeons now sat the three devils of Angloa, awaiting their final sentence.

Isabella Swan had gone back to Adelton with Alan Moore, Nicholas, Alice and Sofia to rebuild as well. The castle had retained substantial damage after Alistair's attacks.

She found, however, that it was hard being in that castle. It only reminded her of those she'd lost there. The young woman would stalk the hallways in her black garb, eerie; like she was remembering her dead fiancé. Her mother sat down and spoke to her several times, but her proud daughter wouldn't share her feelings.

There was a silent agreement between Isabella and Sofia because they both shared the same secret. Carlisle had come to her one day, to see how she faired. He eventually managed to make her come with him to Safeira, hoping a change of scenery would liven her spirits up. But he knew what she went through, that heartbreak of knowing she couldn't be with her love.

Edward had formed his council at Wessport. It consisted of many new and fresh faces. Lord Athar and Glovendale were the only old ones who still remained. Lord Quinn formed part of the council, together with Lord Durun and Fawkes.

Lord Athar had been hinting to the king that he had to think of marriage soon. Now that Angloa finally knew peace, he had to settle down and produce an heir. But the king refused, and Athar didn't know why. Every woman they presented to him was of another royal house out in Europe. But the king's heart only belonged to one woman.

He let it slip one day, wondering if he could not marry an Angloan woman instead. His lords were a bit perplexed at first. They reasoned that the king had been raised as a commoner first and might not understand the political power he could gain from marrying another princess. They thus gathered he'd have to marry a northerner, preferably of high nobility such as a marquess or a duchess. But every woman they presented before him, was not to his liking.

On the same day Isabella Swan was to enter the city with Carlisle Chaeld, now Duke of Sorossa, the king once more put aside the prospect of marrying a northerner to his lords. They sat in a smaller room where the Assembly would now gather. A rounded room with a modest table to house them. Lord Irias was present. Raleigh and Black had returned back to their homes. Lord Graham still remained steward. The lords from Sorise had drifted back to their homes as well, not offered a higher position at court.

"If His Majesty persists in turning away each young lady we present him, then how does he propose we find him a suitable bride?"

The monarch drummed his fingers against the mahogany table. He took in the elegant interior of the Assembly room. The draping cloths of Wessport had been blue. In Safeira they were white, signaling his new rule.

He knew what he wanted to tell them, but he couldn't just. He was no fool Edward knew how it would look. Maybe a change in subject might help him push the conversation in the right direction. Alas, before he could even open his mouth, it seemed Fawkes beat him to it.

"I hear Isabella Swan arrives today with Lord Carlisle," Fawkes said with a smile. Both names evoked a tug at the lips of those present—both were people who had been close to Edward Cullen.

"You know," Irias pondered. "There are other people at court who require our attention as well. Isabella Swan was given away by king Jasper in wedlock to Edward Cullen, they never followed through with their marriage. But His late Majesty knew what he was doing. Marrying off the different noble families has always been the monarch's custom," he informed matter-of-factly. "I think, Your Majesty, we should look at the possibility of marrying her off to another nobleman," Irias said.

Edward fought hard not to react to those words.

He could hear Durun chuckle. "I pity the man who ties the knot with that woman, for she could never give him her heart," he said.

How true.

"She represents a grand house, we need to unite Angloa, and a way of rebuilding is by making sure the _right_ houses are united. Those who stood by you, who were loyal to you, should build stronger ties amongst themselves. If we have a strong network, we avoid any future conspiracy, or snuff it out quicker than Jasper did," Irias retorted.

"Then who do you suggest she marry?" the king asked, his eyes fixed on the older lord.

"Someone who was loyal to you. She seems to get along well with Lord Carlisle, wouldn't that be a good match?" Irias asked.

Edward tensed, the very thought sickening him. How could he ever give Isabella away to Carlisle? How could he watch her stand by his side, knowing they would share their bed together?

"Your Majesty?" someone else interrupted.

The king glanced about the room, taking in all the faces. "Indeed, it is a good proposal. Why not bring her and Lord Chaeld to the throne room this afternoon. There are certain things to be discussed, I believe," he said. He threw a glance out the window.

The king was looking out over the sapphire rooftops, summer was bursting at the seams. The whole city smelled of citrus and flowers. The ocean danced lazily in the distance as the bustling city was alive; as if the war had never happened.

* * *

Safeira was warm and inviting to her. Aldea felt strangely like home, but there was a certain nostalgia now tied to it. Isabella was shown to her old rooms that she had occupied after the city had been won over when William Fell had been crowned there. She walked around the room and shed her large cape.

She had started showing slightly; if one looked when she was undressed. But her full skirts and laced stays still concealed her pregnancy. She wanted more stability in the country before she came out with what she carried in her belly. But she knew it was time that Edward knew. She hadn't wanted to disturb him with a letter as he traveled around the country throughout most of May.

The young woman could not see that there was another in her room, another who had waited for hours until she entered.

When he finally stepped out into the light, he scared her half to death. Isabella jumped as her hand went to her heart. "You frightened me!" she exclaimed under her breath.

He could not help but smile a little. "Just like old times." He stood hesitantly before her. He, the king of Angloa, the most powerful man in the country, hesitated to walk up to her.

She looked out the windows that showed the sea, her lips forming into a small smile. "You sent Carlisle, didn't you?" she asked him after a while.

"I… need you by my side," he answered, finally gathering enough courage and walking up to his wife.

"I cannot be by your side, not as your wife anymore," she whispered. "And being here, Edward…it is difficult," she confessed.

"The war is over."

"But it brought with its consequences, wounds that need healing, a country that needs rebuilding."

He didn't know how best to break it to her. He had pondered Irias' words for a long time. If there was one man he trusted in, it was Carlisle. They were brethren. If it was one man he could willingly see her being with it was Carlisle.

"I gathered the Assembly this morning, and we spoke of the future."

She arched an eyebrow. "Your future, I gather."

"I cannot marry anyone else, Isabella," he said slowly, looking into her eyes. "I…I cannot."

"And you told them this? Edward…you are the king. You _need_ an heir," she hesitated as she took in his emerald eyes, the rich color of his orbs. She saw in them the feelings he held for them, the stubbornness of not wanting to let her go. Why couldn't he listen to his lords? Why did he have to be stubborn and force something so difficult? She had heard that the king had declined a handful of marriages. If it continued, people would start getting suspicious.

She swallowed. "You need…at least…a legitimate heir that everyone knows is yours," she continued.

At first, he didn't quite catch the underlying meaning of her words. Then he processed them, and it started dawning on him what she was really saying.

Edward thought he would fall, that he would falter. His eyes trailed down to her belly, to where her hand reached.

He didn't even need to ask. She saw it in his expression; the mix of emotion displaying across his features. He was shaking and sweating at the same time. The king paled as his eyes widened more and more. He had never dared ask _why_ —after all the time they had spent in their arms—no fruit had come from it. He didn't want to hurt her in thinking it might have been due to her poisoning. Maybe it had partly stopped her from getting pregnant, they would never know. When she saw the utter joy in his eyes, Isabella couldn't help as she got a little emotional.

"A child," he finally whispered.

"Our child," she smiled amidst a few tears. " _Our_ child." Her lips trembled, just as he furrowed his eyebrows and smiled, walking up to her and kissing her. In that moment of pure bliss, nothing else mattered. They pretended to be a normal family, with normal problems.

He held her in his arms as the seagulls sang in the distance, as the music of the city penetrated through the walls of Aldea.

"It will show soon, and by then Angloa will have to know who the father is. Because this child needs a father," she trembled. "I…I cannot have it grow up thinking its father died in battle, thinking it may never see him." She was so torn, so broken apart by what the future entailed for their little daughter or son.

He grimaced in pain with her. "The lords have started mentioning that some noble houses should be joined together. And you have been mentioned as one of the women whom I should marry off to some other house," he whispered in her ear.

Isabella grew stiff in his embrace, but she didn't fight him. He sensed her give up, her body pressing harder against him. She looked up at him, sparkling chocolate orbs clashing with green forests; so much love and passion allowed to escape now that they were unwatched.

"And who is to be my new intended?" She didn't argue, didn't refuse. Isabella could refuse, of course. But what other choice did she have? Edward wouldn't marry her off to just anyone. And if she could bear to live with that person, then their child would at least have a father and a name.

"Carlisle," he whispered to her. And she could see how torn apart he was by the whole affair. It tore her apart just as much.

"Carlisle is a good man," she whispered to him. "But it wouldn't be fair to him—"

"If we asked, I know he'd do it," her husband whispered in her ear.

"I…don't know if I ever could be with him," she said frantically. "Not like I've been with you."

Edward looked tired then. Even beyond the tomb, the mask bore down harshly on them. He took her hand and kissed it tenderly.

"Please come to the throne room this evening," he begged her.

"There you will announce it?" she asked.

"There I announce your engagement," the king nodded.

She stepped back and curtsied. "Of course," she answered, and he went to leave as soon as the coast was clear. She had promised to be strong for him. She couldn't falter now.

* * *

She didn't know why, but she was frightened of stepping into that room. Isabella Swan could face an army threatening her castle, but seeing the man she loved parted from her, surrounded by his courtiers—it did something to her.

Heavy steps brought her to the closed doors. She could hear the murmurs buzzing about behind those doors.

"Let us know when to open the doors to announce you, my lady," one of the footmen told her gently. He saw her nervous state and she breathed heavily, nodding.

"I need one moment," she whispered his way.

She had already talked to Carlisle, spoken to him about what Edward had heard from the lords. Carlisle had given much for his friend, she did not suspect he would do this as well. Alas, it was a lot to ask. He hadn't given her a clear answer and she hadn't asked for one.

Beyond that door, all of Safeira would bear witness as the king promised her in marriage to someone else. Someone that wasn't him.

"Courage," she whispered to herself. And, indeed, she couldn't only think about herself anymore. She carried another being within her. A child; someone she wanted to promise a bright future. And a bright future meant having a name, meant having a father that wasn't dead.

"My lady?" the footman asked. More than a minute had passed.

She gave him a decisive nod. The doors glinted open and the wonders of court bathed her in their light. Isabella had never stopped to take in the court of William Fell.

It wasn't the frightened glances of Victoria's court, it wasn't the conspiring smiles of Jasper' court.

It was _peace_ ; men and women that appeared at ease, in harmony. They stood by the side of the red carpet trailing up to the throne, people lining the pillars. They laughed and joked. They did not fear him, they respected him. Her mouth couldn't help but tremble in its faint smile. In the middle of it all he sat, a shining beacon of light, the bringer of peace. And she saw that he had finally found his place, seating his throne.

She took one step after another as she heard her name announced and heads turn. She saw approving faces as she walked up to the king. Isabella Swan had made a name for herself both during her engagement with Edward Cullen and after. She didn't realize it, but she was well-liked by them as well. After having been associated with a traitor and then sold off to a strange man in a mask, she had, in the end, become accepted by her peers. She never thought such a thing would matter to her, but it did.

She curtsied before the king and he nodded to her. He stood up and walked up to her, leaving the throne behind.

William Fell stood before her in bright clothes, dressed in a bright beige doublet lined in gold. She dressed the opposite, still in mourning black.

"The Countess of Cadherra is the reason we have all gathered here at this hour," he said in his strong, velvety voice and in an instant, it silenced the room.

He couldn't help but give her a shy smile.

"The reason I ever returned to Angloa was because Edward Cullen managed to find me. You see," he pondered, talking to the crowd. "I was a bit lost, but both he and Her Ladyship guided me back."

Isabella clasped her hands before her and looked at the ground. If she looked directly at him, she would give it all away, they would _know_.

"Cullen promised me that, if anything were ever to happen to me, he would make sure Angloa fell under a just ruler that wasn't Victoria," he continued. "But nothing happened to me," he trailed off and turned to look at her with regret in his eyes. "And I promised him that if anything happened to him, I would do my best to rule this country, just as my father had once. And," he paused, the unspoken words lingering in the room, the crowd hanging onto every word. "I promised I would take care of his fiancée," the king continued.

Not a person stirred in that room as the king kept her fixed with his gaze, no one knew what was going through his mind.

"My lords have been impressive advisors as I find my footing as your monarch. Angloa needs to unite. One such way is through marriage." His green orbs shifted to look at his courtiers. "Could you believe they think Lady Swan should marry, so soon after losing her fiancé?" he scoffed and looked at Lord Irias with an arched eyebrow. Some of the other courtiers scoffed as well, the idea not that well received.

"The idea did, however, remain in my mind, that uniting this country by having nobility marry has always been done. But then there was this promise I made to a very good and a very old friend. If Lady Swan should marry, I only knew of one match that I'd approve. And I know that if she were to accept—for the choice falls onto her—she would be wonderful in her new title," he added.

The courtiers now wondered whom the king might have thought of as her new intended. Some there hoped it would be them. After her romantic love story with Edward Cullen and the way she had fiercely defended Cadherra and practically given Wessport to the king, she was much beloved by the people.

The king walked up closer to her and she squared her jaw as he stood so close—close enough for her to sense the waft of pine, of sandalwood. "The choice is yours, my lady, if you would deem it worthy to be my queen."

Someone in the crowd dropped their cup and its clatter against the marble echoed loudly throughout the throne room.

There she stood, the revered Lady Isabella before the fierce King William. And he had just asked for her hand in marriage. They did not know how to react. Some shook their head disapprovingly, others arched their eyebrows. Would she accept?

But others—others understood it was obvious. It didn't matter that the king had made a promise or not. Who better for him to marry than the woman the people so hailed and praised? Who better to marry than the woman who had helped him end the war and bring peace?

He stood before her, waiting for her answer. And, in the end, just like that evening in Raven's Grove, he had _asked_ her. Even as a king he did not expect her to simply marry him. He cared more about her opinion than his own pride. Isabella wanted to kiss him. But she knew it would take time before she could openly display affection before him. Probably years.

She already knew her answer.

Her eyes trailed to meet his and she kept her shocked expression on her features a little longer.

"How could I refuse a king?"

* * *

 **A/N: Another quick update! I am so glad to see what you are enjoying these final chapters. All the ties are slowly coming together, we are almost at the end my friends. I still intend to keep my promise to you and have this fic completed before the 24th ;)**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	33. Chapter 33

**THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN**

 _Chapter 33_

 _May 30th – Safeira_

They would have a summer wedding in the cathedral where he had been crowned. And, to time it with the wedding, a fortnight after she would be crowned his queen.

At first, people stood divided. Some felt Isabella had little choice and could only say yes. Because, indeed, it was hard to refuse a king. The tragedy of having lost the love of her life would always haunt the countess. And now she was cast into another marriage so quickly. But others felt that if the king was to take a bride, it should be her. The woman who had held Adelton and Cadherra bravely, the woman who had surrendered Wessport.

It was a month before their wedding. They were letting the country adapt to the changes as Angloa settled after her war. Edward made sure to get the infrastructure up to par, to get the commerce to what it had been before. He would make his country prosperous again. He had yet to deal out any charges to Victoria, Thorpe, and Alistair. He had no need to visit them as their names only brought upon him bad memories. They could remain in the dungeons a little longer to ponder their decisions.

Athar had sought him out a foggy morning in early summer when the king was sitting in the royal gardens that overlooked the city. He had avoided the royal advisor for days after the little stunt he had played in the throne room.

Athar sat down next to the king as they were bathed in the golden light of dawn. Trimmed hedges formed geometrical patterns and some formed squares within which flowers of different colors grew. In the distance, a large and round stone fountain surrounded by cypresses and lemon trees trickled. The gardens held an exquisite perfume that reminded him of the south.

"I know what you will say, Thomas," he started, looking at his city, at his home. "But I'm the bloody king. The final decision is mine and I am marrying that girl—"

"I didn't come here to question your decision, William," the old man smiled, looking at the wonderful sight with him. They sat for a long moment, basking in the morning sun. "It is so peaceful, isn't it?" he sighed longingly.

The king smiled, drawn in by the still beauty of an early morning. "Why are you here, then?"

A sad smile touched Athar's features. "My errors and pride are one of the reasons it all played out as it did. I should have been more attentive to both Rosalie and Victoria after Philip's death. I should have protected them against Rebecca," he continued.

Edward mindlessly ran his index finger along the soft fabric of his doublet, lost in thought. "Athar," he started as he turned to him. "I do not think we would be standing here today if it wasn't for you," he said honestly. "If it wasn't for your wisdom and your council."

"I am grown old now," the old man responded after a pause. He arched an eyebrow and leaned in. "And an old man is entitled to retirement, don't you think?"

His words shocked him. "You mean to leave Safeira?"

"The white shores of Cantabria have called for me for some time now, I think."

Edward was lost. Athar had been a steady foundation, his guide through it all. What would he do without him? "I still believe we could all benefit from your guidance, my lord—"

The old man with gray eyes and white hair put up a hand and a fatherly smile touched his features. "From what I have seen, you do not need me anymore, Sire. Times are changing and Angloa enters a new era." He gazed to the horizon. "It is time a new generation took charge and modernized this country. We old ones must step back now."

"You are not the only one leaving," the king said slowly after a while, as he caught the hidden meaning behind Athar's words. The old man inclined his head. "Fawkes?" Edward guessed.

"He will not admit it, but he is beyond his prime years. And I think settling down and resting may benefit him. Fawkes has never known peace, only the court or conflict. And I think he would appreciate the stillness now."

"If that is your wish," Edward began. Alas, he had no wish to see Athar leave court and his side. "Could I ask you to remain until after her coronation, at least?" he wondered. "I know it would mean a lot to her to have you there."

"Until her coronation then," Athar smiled. He then crossed his arms and a pensive look swept over his features. "I heard one of the maids say she was packing lightly, it seems the countess is going away on a short trip before marrying."

"What?" the king asked. She hadn't said anything of this to him. Was she going to slip away undetected? He got up and started moving toward the castle.

Athar chuckled as he saw him leave.

* * *

"No, Alice, not the silk. Take the linen and cotton instead. We do not wish to draw attention—" she said to her confidant. Alice nodded quickly. She still couldn't believe her friend was going to be queen. _The_ queen. The king had bestowed the title of 'lady' unto Alice. It was a befitting title for the confidant and lady-in-waiting of the queen. The king wouldn't have it any other way.

She liked him.

"When did the ship leave?" the confidant asked again.

"At noon. Carlisle would meet us there, he—" her words caught in her throat as she spun around to be met by none other than the King of Angloa himself.

Alice dropped the dresses and mumbled something incoherent before fleeing from the scene. She knew Isabella had not informed His Majesty because she did not wish to disturb him. But Alice suspected she did not want the king to know where she was headed off to.

"You know, I had to find out from Athar by all people that you were _escaping_ ," he mused as he went to sit in one of the fauteuils of her chambers.

She waved a careless hand in the air. "Oh, hush, I haven't made any secret of leaving."

He looked at the light luggage. "Then why the simple clothes?" he asked her and pointed to the plain skirts and dresses. "It looks like you're traveling _incognito_." He grinned teasingly at her.

Her lips pressed together.

"Sit," he said while pointing to the chair. "You know you can share anything with me."

Resignation plastered over her features. "I didn't want to bother you. I know you've been so very busy lately with the country, rebuilding and all that," she sighed and settled back in the fauteuil opposite him.

Edward frowned. "I will always have time for you, you know that," he said to her as a light smile spread his lips. "Will you not tell me at least why and where you are going?" he asked.

Isabella didn't know where to start. But start she did. She started from the very beginning; the day Braun had kidnapped her, the incident on the ship and the wounds she had sustained. And then she spoke of the young woman who had healed her, the woman who even if she only met her for a moment, had given her courage.

She revealed the knife to him, the curved blade nestled within its white sheath. A simple blade that housed so much to her. She explained what it symbolized to her. She explained who had given it to her.

"And now I must give it back. It was almost a year ago, she may not remember me. But I need to thank that young woman for what she did for me, for the kindness she showed me."

Edward looked at the blade long and hard, savored the name his wife had repeated once and again on his lips.

"I am coming with you," he whispered in a husky voice.

"I do not think—"

"I am coming with you."

 _June 10_ _th_ _– Málaga_

Outside Málaga stretched open fields in gold with quaint emerald forest under a sapphire sky. Zoráida and her family had left the city center and opted for the freedom of nature.

They had thus gotten further away from the intrigues of the city. The young woman and her family had been forced to convert to the Catholic faith or be thrown from their lands completely. Like so many other Moors and Jews on the Iberian Peninsula—where they had lived for generations—many opted to turn to the new faith. But many remained true to their old religions in secret.

Isabella, Edward, and Carlisle walked for a while until happening upon the farm they had been sent to; a small whitewashed house with an adjacent stable. It was so quaint it might have belonged in a fairy tale. A small stream ran nearby, and a waterwheel turned lazily in the summer heat.

They saw some children play in the golden fields. Here and there some red flowers dotted the yellow meadow and Isabella couldn't help but smile.

They walked up to the house only to have an older woman come out to meet them. Carlisle recognized Hala, Zoráida's mother, instantly. He inclined his head in a short and the moment the woman saw the blond man she shouted for her daughter.

Zoráida came running and was met by the strange trio. Her eyes darted from Carlisle to Edward, lingering long and hard on the hood. She caught sight of the brunette walking up to her, hesitantly at first.

Isabella was the first to speak, unable to grasp that she now stood before this woman. One of the many women she owed much. "I do not know if you remember me, but you—"

The Moorish woman looked at the heart-shaped face of the other before her, how her dress danced in the lazy Mediterranean breeze. It carried with it the scent of the sea.

A smile spread across her lips. "I take it you escaped." Her words tickled Isabella's ears with their soft intonation, floating through the air like a melody. In the stark light of the warm sun, Isabella detected that Zoráida's hair wasn't as black as she had previously thought it to be. Working in the sun all the time must have brightened it because she detected streaks of reddish-brown running through it.

"I heard you converted," Isabella breached the subject. She almost looked apologetic.

Zoráida's lips pressed together. "We didn't really have much choice. They chased us out of the city, it was safer like this. My whole family was baptized a few months ago."

Isabella pulled out the white dagger. "The knife you gave me, what it represented, it allowed me to make it through my captivity." She rose her chocolate orbs to meet the dark ones, a hint of emerald coursing through them. "I have found my place, I am home again. And I have come to return this to its owner," Isabella said and handed it to her.

Zoráida didn't know what to say at first. She stared at the outstretched hands. Never had she dreamed that her knife would help that woman as it had.

She took it, feeling its familiar weight once more. The young woman never realized how much she had truly missed it once it was in her hands. Before Isabella could move away, Zoráida took her hand and embraced her. The action felt natural; like they had always been close. The connection was one which didn't need words to formulate. It was simply there. In their embrace, Isabella hugged her hard, pouring her soul into it, hoping the woman in front of her could feel her gratitude.

"I heard news in the port a few months back, of an Angloan woman kidnapped and taken to the east, only to be saved by her fiancé," Zoráida started slowly. "Her fiancé Edward Cullen."

The name made Isabella smile and nod.

A shadow of pain and sorrow presented itself in the depths of her dark orbs, nestled within the emerald stream. "I am sorry for his loss. I knew him very well, like a brother."

"I know," the brunette told her. The heat pressed down on them, the wind lazy, no more than a faint breeze that did nothing to freshen up their surroundings. "He told me." And at that moment, she stepped aside to let the hooded man walk up to them.

Zoráida clutched the knife close to her chest, the dark eyes wide as they tried to discern the features under the hood.

She expected a mask, but she saw the outline of a chin, of lips in a faint smile. She recognized that smile all too well. She had seen it many times before and her heart skipped a beat when he got closer.

"Do you remember your final words to me?" he asked as he stood before her. Isabella took steps back to give them space, joined by Carlisle as they watched the individuals in front of them reunite.

The young woman before them could not help her eyes as they widened further in recognition of the familiar voice. A trail of tears stalked down her cheeks and her lip trembled when she realized he was alive.

" _When you come back, I will see your face_ ," she sobbed softly.

All this time she had thought him dead, ever since the news spread to Málaga in April. And she hadn't wanted to accept it. Yet here he stood, his hand reaching up to the hood. Zoráida cried in the summer heat, tears of pure joy, tears that he was alive.

The hood pushed back, and she shook her head with a faint smile.

Out of all the people he had ever unmasked in front of, she was the first one who did not understand why he had worn it, why he had concealed his face. She was the first who did not know _who_ he was.

"I _knew_ you were handsome, you idiot," she continued sobbing as he embraced her; like a brother would embrace his sister. For Isabella and Carlisle, it was a moment of peace to see them together. Isabella started crying as well at witnessing such love and happiness after so much pain and darkness.

They all took a moment to regain composure. Zoráida invited them inside and for a moment. Edward's face was left bare and no one knew who he was supposed to be. It was strange for him, to be a stranger yet know them. They ate supper together, laughed and retold stories of their past.

Carlisle kept being mesmerized by her, his eyes never truly leaving her, and both Edward and Isabella saw it in his eyes. He was courting her when he thought they weren't paying attention.

For a brief instant, they were common folk, with no high titles tied to them. And it was a freedom they savored.

When evening neared, it was time to leave. Edward pulled the hood back up and turned to face her.

"In Angloa, my position requires me to remain there, indefinitely, I believe."

"You will not travel with Sofía anymore?" she asked in her soft Spanish accent. He squared his jaw and sighed. "No."

"Then you cannot come and visit me anymore," she whispered, understanding what he meant by that. She shook her head. "I was never good with goodbyes."

It sounded like she was reprimanding him, but when the smile broke through, he knew she was not angry. "I am honored to know you are alive, that you are with the woman you love and that you know what your future entails," she told him.

Edward bowed back in respect. "Maybe our roads will cross again someday, Zoráida," he told her.

She smiled at the three of them. When her eyes met Carlisle's, he was drawn in, and maybe, even just a little—so was she.

He saw how she hesitated as he mentioned her name. "What did you choose?" he asked her after a moment's pause. "Did you choose a new name after your baptism?"

Some church-bells started ringing in the distance. "I did," she said softly, almost blushing. "I picked my name to honor you—the name you bestowed upon me when we were children," she continued. A smile touching her lips.

He knew what she had picked, the nickname he had lovingly said to her sometimes when they were younger. The nickname that reflected her perfectly; like the true gem that she was. "Well then, until our roads cross again, Esmeralda," he bowed. Isabella curtsied, and Carlisle dared even take her hand and kiss the back of it.

As they walked back to the ship, Edward put his arm around Carlisle and leaned toward his friend, jovially leaning in to say; "Have you ever thought about becoming an ambassador, my friend?"

 _June 25_ _th_ _– Safeira_

In the early morning, she had left her bed to seek Sofia out. It was further down the massive castle, near a room she kept her tools and herbs for healing. Isabella preferred the remedies of the gypsy to the physicians rather medieval treatments. Her back had been aching and the queen-to-be sought a poultice.

She found the door ajar, smiling at the early riser that Sofia was.

Alas, as she entered the cramped space, the herbs hanging from the beams were gone, the flasks and small bags had been removed from the shelves. In a corner sat Sofia, stuffing in some linen into her packed bags.

She was leaving.

And it didn't look like she was saying goodbye.

The moment Sofia saw her, she arched an eyebrow, before continuing with her bags.

"You know how he will react if you do not say goodbye," the countess reprimanded.

Sofia snickered. "Kings shouldn't worry themselves with us common folk."

Isabella leaned against the doorframe. The window was slightly ajar and the silver hairs in the gypsy's unruly mane caught the morning luster.

"Tell him goodbye, Sofia," she said.

But the other shook her head. "You already know what I've told you before—about feelings, about attachment—"

"A mother should at least say goodbye to her son."

The older woman paused, mid-action. No one had ever said it out loud. Until Isabella. And that she should acknowledge it put even more weight behind the fact.

"He will understand why you leave. But at least bid your goodbyes. I think you both deserve that closure."

For the first time ever, she saw the Spaniard uncertain, almost weary.

The countess walked up to her and pulled her burgundy robe closer about her form. "Come, I'll walk with you," she said.

They shared a moment of unspoken understanding before Sofia nodded, closing her bags, taking a final look about the rooms before following the young Angloan.

They walked in silence, in utter harmony, letting the sounds of a walking castle together with the chirping of birds fill their ears.

She took the old woman to stand before his door and knocked three times, softly, but loud enough for Edward to hear. It was the back-door to his chambers, away from the prying eyes of the royal guards or the servants that would wait upon the king. He would know it was her before even opening the door.

And in a matter of moments, it opened, with the king standing there, almost eager to see her. But he hadn't expected Sofia to be there as well.

Isabella looked at them both, she walked over to the gypsy, squeezed her hands, saying everything she needed with her eyes. And then she left.

Edward knew why she had brought her there, and he ushered the older woman in before closing the door after her.

"You are leaving," he murmured, his back still turned to her.

"You know I cannot stay."

He hadn't expected her to. But a small part of him had hoped. Everything was as it should be, but he couldn't ignore that he'd wanted her at his court.

Edward faced her and her stern, wrinkled features softened. He was finally rid of his mask, he was seated on his throne, and soon the woman he loved would sit by his side.

"You could remain as court physician," he trailed off. "There is a place for you here, only ask and you shall want for nothing—"

She walked up to him, to the man who had become her son, and for the first time ever, she let some emotion slip through.

"I roam the earth, Edward. I do not settle down in a place forever. I cannot stay here."

He knew. But he didn't want it to be that way. Alas, he could not cage a free spirit.

"Edward Cullen is no more, thus there is nothing holding me here. I leave you in the hands of the other woman in your life," she told him. "I know she will be by your side, your pillar of strength, your companion. And that alone allows me to leave Angloa calm."

He did not ask where she would go. He walked up to her and the king was cast aside as the general stepped forth. "I have two mothers. The one who birthed me, and the one who raised me," he whispered in her ear as he embraced her.

She shut her eyes and they remained like that for a while. And, when they had finished, she picked her bags and left.

Like dust in the wind, she was gone. Edward walked over to the windows and saw her exit through the courtyard, waiting a moment and turning to look up at him.

There went another part of his life, of his past.

 _July 11_ _th_ _– Safeira_

Their wedding saw a grand feast and much celebration in the restored capital of the country. It had been a breathtaking sight and, while the couple was already secretly married, the rest of the country didn't know that.

Carlisle Chaeld had been the one to walk Isabella down the same aisle Edward had on the eve of his coronation. The same rose window had bathed them in gold. And instead of Clarence of Maesir blessing their wedding, Isabella had asked for Friar Nicholas to do so once more—the grandest honor he would ever know.

She had stood before him with the sheer veil down. And the tables had turned from that beautiful summer morning in Raven's Grove a year ago. It wasn't Edward's mask that was removed now, but her veil instead.

Those who had stood closest to them could witness the countess' eyes water and tears run down. They, of course, thought them tears of pain and sadness. The tragedy that was Isabella's life after the death of Edward coursed through the city. It was a part of her life, as much as it was a part of Edward's. And, in the people's eyes, Edward Cullen would always be the first one for the countess, the only true and passionate love. For such was their story, romantic, passionate, and tragic. However, as the tears kept spilling, Isabella knew them not to be tears of pain or sadness. They were tears of relief and joy of finally being able to be with him, having gotten through so many obstacles to finally stand side by side.

Her dress was the same that she wore on their first wedding, the same white garment sewn by Coticelli. The area around the abdomen had been let out by Alice, and the young maid had also helped pull in the stays so that the small roundness now appearing wouldn't be so obvious. She was more or less four months into carrying her child, and they had decided that the final two months of her pregnancy she would seek refuge with Carlisle in Sorossa where she would have her child. Announcing the birth would wait another month, to make sure no gossip emerged speculating that it had been Edward Cullen's. Isabella truly wanted the babe to grow up with its father, without any snarky comments or speculating nobles.

Renée Swan looked at her daughter standing next to the king. She saw the tears. But like so many others, when the king softly wiped them away, she knew her daughter was in good hands. The action had been tender yet reserved. While the public had adored Edward and Isabella, they started growing to accept William and Isabella as well.

That evening had been full of celebration throughout the city. And as they all rejoiced in the great hall of Aldea, adjacent to the throne room. Edward reveled in the feeling of having his bride sit next to him. He loved being able to openly declare that she was his, finally.

He didn't know he could be this happy. And, as they sat by the head table, looking at the musicians and jesters, at the talking courtiers, their friends, and family; they exchanged a glance, a knowing glance. They were finally home, finally where they were supposed to be.

Athar caught a glimpse of the king, the lovestruck look he sent his wife's way and he could not help but smile. Never had they hoped for such an ending to the war.

The many deaths still loomed over them. But joining forces, Isabella and William Fell pushed past the sorrow the deaths represented. Instead, they chose to hail the fallen, to revere them for the true heroes that they were.

Before entering the grand throne room, a long hallway with tall windows looking out over the city led to it. On the left side stood the windows, letting the ever-glowing sunshine enter, facing southwest, getting a view of the ocean. On the other, were some old paintings and tapestries. At the very end, just above the doors leading to the throne room, had hung a painting of Philip Fell.

Unbeknownst to the king, Athar had planned to refurbish that grand hall as the last thing he'd do before leaving.

He met William Fell at the mouth of the hallway. The vaulted roof in bright marble rose high above them with gothic valves extending like the nave of a ship to the columns that supported the structure. The windows let in the bright daylight to illuminate the space. The floor was lined in one continuous carpet leading all the way up to the front. The simplicity in the color palette in the hallway allowed the carpet to take all attention as it was embroidered in rusty yellows, reds, and burgundy.

Edward had walked through that structure many times before, not really paying the hallway much attention, except for appreciating the stylish architecture; the early gothic style making itself clearly known.

He and Athar walked down the corridor together. It was three days before Isabella's coronation, the final ceremony that would forever tie them together.

Edward and Athar walked in solace, and in silence at first. Casually, the old duke started chatting with the king about his day, about his wife and about the country in general. Edward was already proving himself to know how to run the country efficiently.

Their steps were muffled slightly by the exquisite carpet as they passed by the windows. Occasionally, they'd hear some seagull cry out, or the wind pushing against the castle. If they concentrated, they could hear the crashing of the waves hitting the rocks down by the harbor.

"It is all very surreal, that the war should have ended," the king mentioned as he took in the peace. Had he ever known this peace of mind? He had spent so much time running from his destiny that he never thought he'd be at ease once it caught up with him.

"The Assembly is quite aflutter with your sentencing of Thorpe, Victoria, and Alistair," Athar continued, stopping before the king. "Are you certain that is what you wish for them?"

William Fell squared his jaw. The previous day they had finally gotten around to discussing the traitors imprisoned down in the dungeons. A sentence had to be passed, and the king had finally decided. Thorpe, after much consideration, was to hang the following day, despite the coronation so close at hand. For his conspiring, his execution would be public, and his role in it all would be made public for the whole world to know of.

Victoria would remain a while longer in the dungeons until she was eventually sent near the Alban Mountains, to a small fortress where she would live in solace, in a sort of exile, for the rest of her days. He didn't want to execute her, despite everything she had done. Because she was still his blood. And he would not sentence his own sister to die.

Then there was Alistair—he had pondered his faith a long time. Saxton had never gotten the satisfaction of killing him, of getting his vengeance. And it irritated the king. But he had started forming a plan on what he would do with the lord. He had not told his council, but he had a plan on what he'd do to Alistair.

"I think it is just," he answered Athar.

"Some think you are being too lenient on Victoria and Alistair, that they should have their heads removed from their bodies."

William shook his head, raising his chin slightly. "I am tired of focusing on them, on all the evil they have spread in Angloa."

Athar nodded haphazardly. He started moving once the king began walking again. There was a peace and stillness settling in Safeira that had not been felt for a very long time. A new era was showing its face to Angloa—in his old bones he sensed it, like one could hint the arrival of spring, and know that the beauty and peace of summer were not too far behind.

Maybe a golden age was upon them.

William Fell and Thomas Athar graced the hallway, gazing upon the few old portraits hanging upon the walls. Some old paintings had been taken down, the wear on the surrounding wall and the lighter color where the paintings or tapestries had hung showing the true age of the refurbished palace.

Thomas Athar led the long-lost son of Philip Fell to what would be his last gift to him. His last words of wisdom—if they could be seen that way. William Fell knew the responsibilities that would now rest on his shoulders. He was set and determined, and they all knew he would not fail. He would become a true king, not born into the luxuries of palace life, but molded into a monarch by what life had thrown his way. He would not just be a king, he would be a leader of his people. The words _a king is not born, he is made_ hung around him like a premonition, for they truly echoed what the monarch was.

Athar knew it was something the young man had never really wanted; the crown. Just like his mother had foreseen so many years ago. Yet, there he was, walking alongside him until they stopped.

"Angloa has seen many difficulties throughout the ages. But good and just people have always made this island prevail. What Your Majesty said about leaving the evil and destruction in the past is wise," the old man smiled. "There are many we have lost in this decades-old conflict." He turned to the king. "It all started the moment I pushed your father to marry your mother."

As they came closer to the throne room, the king noted how some portraits had been exchanged for newer ones, the style modern. They stopped to gaze at the new paintings. The first one to line the vast wall, always illuminated by the sun as it trailed down to the west, was a grand composition showing what Edward could only deduce as his soldiers. They sat around a campfire sharing bread and wine, laughter on their faces. He swore one of those faces belonged to Carlisle.

The king stepped back, not able to ask what he wanted to ask. He was taken by surprise.

"We should remember those who fought for us in this war—those the historians may not mention by name," Athar continued. "I didn't have a face for each of them, but often did I see them like a brotherhood, joined together by their sense of duty and will to fight. In each man, there lives a hero, Sire. And each of those who laid down their lives so that we may stand here today, became one," he said, taken in by the warmth of the painted fire.

Edward looked up the final way to the vast doors leading to his throne. More newly made paintings lined the walls. And he recognized some of the people on them. "You had all these made?" he asked, mesmerized and eager to see the rest. The gesture Athar had made—to pay for such precious things—touched the very strings of his heart.

"Angloa should never forget who she owes her freedom to," he whispered, taken in by the stillness in that hallway. The past months he had employed several painters and had each dedicated to a specific painting. Edward realized the amount of money he must have put into the project.

He trailed along the carpet, up to the next one.

Emmett Saxton sat on a boulder before them, clad in his forest attire from when he had been a bandit in Raven's Grove. "Without Saxton, Edward Cullen may have never found his way to Wessport," Athar said. It was bizarre that the grand lord was dead. He had always seemed so full of life, even after the loss of Rosalie. He had been the arrogant man they all couldn't help but like.

The next painting drew Edward in even more, for it was a painting of Jacob Black. He didn't know if to smile or cry. Whoever had painted the portrait, had captured the very essence of Jacob. The artist had managed to get the amused half-smiled mixed with the curious glance. It was like staring at him through a window; the genteel young man who had given it all for Angloa. "They will never forget him, Sire. We will make sure that all these men are remembered."

"Athar, I…this is the grandest gesture—"

Thomas Athar put up a hand, his crow's feet creasing around his gray eyes. There was one painting left, saved for last.

"When the first war was won against the English trying to take us back, I didn't feel at ease. I knew there were still people trying and vying for the throne. There was a moment—when I took those loyal to Jasper and fled to Raven's Grove—when I didn't know if we would make it. There was a moment where I truly doubted," he confessed. "I didn't yet know about you, your existence, or know that Rosalie would be brought to us. I only knew that it was us—a small army—against the might of Victoria. I never thought anyone that wasn't royal or noble would ever bring me hope." He sighed and looked into the distance. Athar stared out the windows and let his eyes wander to the sea. He chuckled. "And then, suddenly one day, desperate and tense, trying to rally my troops with Fawkes and Saxton, Edward Cullen simply rides into camp with Rosalie Fell trailing along. And I _knew_ , the moment he appeared before me seating that gray stallion of his, that all would be well." Athar's voice was filled with loaded emotion, and his eyes showed the old man taken back to that day.

Edward kept his mouth firmly shut. He had never known Athar felt that way about him, and he was honored the Grand Duke of Cantabria could ever deem to honor an obscure man such as Edward Cullen.

"I decided then that he was the kind of man one only ever reads about, but never actually has the luck to meet in real life. I decided then that he was a true hero to this country. And I think I wasn't the only one. I don't think he ever realized it when he was alive, what he transformed into in the eyes of the Angloans. I don't think he ever knew how _much_ they looked up to him—even the lords."

"You almost make him out to be more than he was," Edward trailed off in a subdued voice.

Athar nodded as he turned to look at the king. "I have always thought that history was in favor of those with the most money, those who could pay for paintings to be done of them, or books to be written about them." He turned to look at a final painting, a painting placed above the doors entering the throne room, replacing the previous one of Philip Fell. It was larger than the others, and one could not help but be drawn to it.

"I was proven wrong by a man in a mask," he chuckled, overcome by emotion. "I thought he would always remain a beloved hero of this land. I pondered _what_ it meant to be a hero. But as I said, many of these men who laid down their lives became that. However, it was different with him. The moment Edward Cullen gave his own life, he became something _more_. And just the other day it dawned on me, Sire. Everything about him; from his actions to his mystery will turn him into a legend, maybe even a myth, in the future. I am certain what he achieved here in the short years he was with us will be passed from generation to generation." He turned to the king. "And I wanted to contribute my part to it. For despite it all, he deserves to be up there, to be remembered by us and history as well. Every Angloan, through each generation, deserves to know that Edward Cullen is not just a myth or a legend. They deserve to know that he was real, and what he fought for and sacrificed was real as well."

The king stepped in closer to the painting. His breath sped up at the likeness; as if he were staring into a mirror.

But it was not truly him.

On the vast canvas up above the doors to the throne room, Edward Cullen stared back with piercing and ominous eyes. He towered over them proudly and imposingly as he held his sword in one hand. He stood larger than life and guarded the door to the throne room. The dark mask could not hide him—not anymore. It was a part of that man—a man who was as dead as the rest of them. Yet, Edward knew it not to be so.

"The day Edward Cullen sacrificed himself for his fellow soldiers on the battlefield and died was the day he became immortal." The old man finally said.

Edward looked at the painting once more—slowly coming to terms with that it was no longer a painting of himself. The man there was something that he could never be again. He had been placed on a pedestal by all those who knew him and those who didn't.

At the masked man's feet, marked out in gold lettering, was a sentence that attracted the eye.

 _Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them._

But there was one flaw on an otherwise perfect depiction of him. He furrowed his eyebrows and stared at Athar who knew exactly where the king's confusion stemmed from.

"If I had the painter stay fully true to the real thing, people would eventually realize," he said, staring at the king straight-on.

The eyes of the man in the painting were dark—almost black with some gold mingling in the irises, making them look dangerous and explosive.

"If I had them painted green like the deepest of forests, like the rolling meadows—well, Your Majesty understands..."

He felt bared before Athar, wondering if the old man would be angry with him. But he wasn't. In fact, he saw pride in those gray orbs. Athar's mouth trembled once he saw in Edward's eyes that he knew now as well.

"You will outdo your father, William. You already proved yourself the day you came back to Angloa to help us in our darkest hour." Edward had rarely seen Athar teary-eyed before. This was one of the rare occasions. The older man's glowing pride for him and obvious joy touched the king's heart as well. "You do not need me to lean on anymore. You never did, my boy."

The monarch hadn't spoken in a while. Athar had gotten the moment to explain himself. The gesture with the paintings had made Edward's heart swell with gratitude. His father's friend was handing it all to him now, letting him finally settle in his new role with a final approval. Edward had never known his father, but he felt—in a way—that he saw a hint of him, by having known Athar. And that alone was enough.

The king took the old man and embraced him.

 _July 13_ _th_ _– Safeira_

The door creaked open and someone stepped inside. Despite it all, her brother had made sure her cell wasn't entirely horrible. Victoria was still plagued by nightmares. She had tried to kill herself twice. It forced the guards to get rid of the shackles, to make sure she didn't try to choke herself with them once more. They would force her to eat because she refused to touch her food otherwise.

She had given up, she hadn't gotten the life she'd wished.

She stared at the shadowy figure in the corner. "I already had my supper this evening," she whispered. The black silken dress had been exchanged to a gray cotton gown, dirty after having worn it for more than a month now.

The shadow remained silent for a while. The cell was cleaned twice a week, courtesy of the king. Still, it stunk, even if she had gotten used to it after a while. She was humiliated at having to relieve herself in the bucket, and at having to live in such close proximities to it.

"They move you tomorrow," the voice spoke. She recognized it but could not place it.

"They moved Thorpe, and from what I hear, the king had him hanged like a common thief."

"Yes, he was hanged."

She squeezed her eyes, trying to get a better view of him. Down in the dungeons, no sunlight filtered through. She guessed it must be evening; the patrols had already changed thrice since she woke.

"Who are you?" she asked the shadow.

"Someone who wants you to know the entire truth," it said. "About me."

Suddenly she could place that grave voice, the low growl, she recognized the proud stance. She _knew_ it was him before even having seen the mask. He turned around and removed a torch from the wall, walking further into the cell.

Yes, she saw it now, that was unmistakably Edward Cullen, in the flesh. But how could that be? It was impossible for it to be a pretender, there for a sick and twisted joke.

"You died," she said in a panicking voice, now pressing against the wall, horrified. He even dressed exactly as Edward had dressed. The torch illuminated his eyes and she saw the familiar forest green orbs. "They told me," her frantic voice wavered. "They told me Alistair killed you."

"Alistair didn't kill me, he killed the man who dressed like me."

The old queen of Angloa shook her head frantically. She didn't want to hear more. She didn't want to gaze beneath his mask. He saw that she was already frantic, so he stepped forward to her and kneeled right by her as she hugged her body and tried to blend into the wall.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Victoria," he told her. "I never meant to hurt you," he said. She heard the pity in his voice.

"Why did you make everyone believe you were dead?" she asked him once she saw that he was true to his word. Among everyone that had been at her court, Edward had been the one she'd liked the most. Something about him pulled her in. She knew she loved him, knew the feelings he awakened in her. It wasn't a lust like she'd had with other men. But she knew it was a want to have him by her side.

"So that I could be with Isabella Swan," he told her.

The older woman before him frowned. "Isabella Swan is married to the king."

The shadow inclined its head and his eyes flickered momentarily. "So I could be with Isabella, as my other self."

A horrible silence befell her, her lips froze, and her throat closed up. She grew mute and paled until her skin was the shade of snow.

His hands went to the laces and undid the mask. He pulled the leather helm off and bared his naked face before her.

It was the face of her father—inches from her. It was the face of William Fell.

She was reminded of the first night she'd tried to enter his chambers, how she'd forced a kiss on his lips, wanted his body on hers. All that time he had been her _brother_? Victoria started shaking visibly until she had to move to the side in order to empty the bile in her stomach.

He stood up and placed the mask over his features once more. He was preparing to leave her. "No other explanation than showing me your face?!" she exclaimed, still weak from the shock.

He tied the laces shut as he looked at her. There was still pity in his eyes. But some resentment as well. He did not do this for her. He did it for himself, to give himself some peace of mind. He wanted Victoria to know what he had achieved.

"After everything you have done, you do not deserve more, Victoria," he told her and brought the torch with him.

She saw another man shut the door and heard the key turn the lock. Victoria tried to stand up to get to the door but fainted once the shock claimed her fully.

* * *

Alistair had lost track of time a long time ago. The only information he got was through the jailor, who wasn't too keen on speaking with him. He knew that Victoria Fell was in the cell on his right, and Thorpe had been in the cell to his left.

A few days ago, the cardinal had been taken away never to return and it made him nervous. His jailor confirmed the cardinal's hanging the morning after. The king had not given him the customary execution by the ax, but rather let him die by the noose, like a common criminal.

He knew it had to be his turn any moment now. He had not been the mastermind like Victoria, Braun or Thorpe, but he had joined in willingly in their schemes. He heard of the king's marriage to Isabella Swan…well it was Fell now, wasn't it?

The disheveled lord leaned against the wall of his corner, his hair falling in dirty tresses into his eyes, his chin ridden with stubble. He rested a shackled hand on his knee.

At least he had killed Cullen. The thought provoked a leer. He would forever be remembered as the one who took down the supposed best swordsman in the kingdom.

The hallway outside was lined with torches. He hadn't heard the guards in a while, only the occasional scurrying of the rats, or the tapping water. He thought he'd heard voice's stemming from Victoria's cell a few minutes earlier, but he brushed it off soon.

Suddenly, one by one, the torches went out, the yellow shine of the fire absolved and swallowed by the darkness. Alistair sat up, suddenly very alert. He widened his eyes to better be able to see in his small cell.

It was all dark except one small torch somewhere at the end of the corridor.

Then he heard them. The echoing footsteps sounding down the hall. He had never listened to something so eerie before. It was like the footsteps screamed at him, sounding too loud in his head. Alistair clenched his jaw while his body tensed. He struggled against his chains. He didn't know why, but he had the sudden urge to get away from there.

The echoing footsteps stopped right outside his cell door.

Silence.

More silence.

He heard his own frantic breaths, the rattling of his chain against the floor of his cell. He heard himself swallow hard.

He heard metal rattle as keys turned and the door squeak and creak in protest as it was pushed open. Alistair stared in horror as a silhouette stood, filling up the entrance to his cell. He pulled against the chains again to get away from it, afraid it was a demon there to take him to hell.

The shadow looked at him and soundlessly moved further into the cell. From somewhere behind the silhouette another source of light emerged, and he could finally see who stood before him.

Alistair snapped.

There stood Edward Cullen. And he noted that on his side—where he had wounded him—blood still dripped as if he was fresh from the grave. What he didn't know, of course, was that it had been applied there a few moments earlier, to make the effect more shocking.

He couldn't find his voice as he let out the silent scream and froze from the fear that now claimed his body.

Cullen—or his ghost—kneeled down to meet Alistair. A harsh expression lined the minuscule parts of his features that were visible under the mask.

"W-w-who?" Alistair stammered in falsetto. A warm liquid spread in his hoses and he realized he had wet himself from fear.

The unforgiving eyes, harsh, cold, murderous, stared him down.

"You should know, Alistair. You were the one who killed me," he rasped in an inhuman voice. It was so dangerously low that it sounded more like the growl of an animal than the voice of a man.

Alistair started dry-heaving in panic. He started shaking furiously and his chains rattled with him. He dared not ask why he was there. He dared not ask what he would do to him.

"When the time is right, I will come for you and take you," the demon said again.

Alistair was crying frantically, a cry of utter desperation, utter fear. The sobs were loud, reverberated against the small and dark interior of his cell.

"W-where?" Why had he asked?

What he presumed was Cullen's vengeful ghost, remained on earth to haunt him and torment him until he himself died, stood up.

"To hell."

Alistair's eyes went back into his skull as he uttered a shriek of utter terror.

Edward smirked and walked out of the cell. He wouldn't kill Alistair, he wouldn't have the keeper of the dungeons torture him either. He would let his own conscience torture him. He would let his mind slip away until there was nothing left. He did it for Jacob and Emmett. Because death was too good for Alistair.

Carlisle has been trying to get his attention and had disappeared with his torch around the corner. Edward stepped out of the cell and locked it behind him. If he continued down the corridor and turned left, there was a hidden passage that would take him to the western courtyard. Within that corridor, he could change, and none would be the wiser what he had done. In the cover of darkness, he could once more slip into the castle.

They had timed it perfectly, making sure that the guards had just done their rounds before first going to Victoria, and then playing their theatrics with Alistair.

Carlisle was tasked standing guard because he too had wanted to hear the screams and wails of both Victoria and Alistair. Watching Thorpe snivel as he had seen the noose a few days prior hadn't been enough. There were more who needed to pay for what they had done. Edward's plan with Alistair was perfect.

But as he remained by the cell, Carlisle had spotted two guards nearing them, and his friend hadn't turned around to listen. The only thing Carlisle could do was run for the passage and wait in the corner, hoping to distract the guards.

Edward stood outside the cell in the cramped hallway with no torch save the one Carlisle held at the end of the corridor.

He saw the guards near him, with no time to run away.

The guards rounded the corner and one nearly dropped his keys when he saw the masked man. They stood completely still until Alistair's shrieks of fear broke through. They saw the masked man's lips tug into a smirk.

" _Audeamus_ ," he told them in the same growling voice with a slight bow of his head. He hoped the word was enough for Carlisle to understand.

Both guards remained just as dumbfounded until Carlisle entered the passageway, removing the torch and thus leaving the corridor in utter darkness. The Duke of Sorossa had gotten the message. The guards fumbled in the dark and almost panicked until they managed to get one of the extinguished torches from the walls and light it.

When it was once more lit, they stared down the corridor and walked to its end and turned left.

No one was there. On the other side of the wall, secure in the hidden passage, Edward and Carlisle lay panting on the floor after having spurted there. They shared a knowing look and couldn't help as muffled chuckles escaped them. The rush had been brilliant!

"H-Harry," one of the guards whispered on the other side, afraid of breaking the silence, afraid of speaking over Alistair's mad screams. "Was it…him?" He couldn't believe what he had just seen.

The one named Harry still stood wide-eyed. He turned around to Alistair's shouts, the lord seemed to have calmed down. They walked to the cell, opened it and saw the mess the dishonored lord found himself in.

Harry closed the door with the key and turned to his colleague. "That _was_ him," he said in utter amazement. "That was the ghost of Edward Cullen!"

His colleague's eyes widened further. "Wait til' I tell the guys down at the tavern tonight!" he exclaimed in shock.

 _July 14_ _th_

She saw her husband in the ermine fur looking proudly at her, she heard the words of Clarence of Maesir say the words.

She swore the oath.

In the same place he had been crowned, she was now proclaimed queen.

And all who had been with her on her journey since the moment of her father's death were present in the cathedral of Safeira. Isabella felt the pressure as the crown pressed down on her head, her summer coronation a nice contrast against her husband's wintry one.

The choir erupted in a heavenly psalm that rocked the foundations of the cathedral. Isabella Fell rose to stand and turned to face the long nave to the door, joined by the king in his purple robe. She pushed the skirt of her white and gold dress back.

"Long live the queen!" they chanted.

"Long live the king," followed.

They walked down the aisle side by side, the rulers of Angloa paraded before high society.

The doors to the cathedral opened and the citizens of Safeira roared in cheers. White doves were let out of their cages and circled around the square before the cathedral.

Just like William's coronation, the new queen got to sit next to her king on his right side in the impressive throne room and the monarchs opened court in Aldea.

Isabella looked at him, fighting hard not to let the love in her gaze reveal itself. But he knew, he would always know.

Their journey had had an adventurous start, but it was far from over, it had only just begun. And, as the nobles drank and made merry, as the music hummed in their ears and day settled, they journeyed to their shared bedroom.

She overlooked the ocean, staring dreamily out over the water and the starry sky that revealed itself before her. Her hand rested on her belly and caressed it softly.

Peace. True and utter peace.

She would never be able to describe the feeling. As his large form came up to her and embraced her from behind, her lips tugged gently at the corners. "I never knew it would end like this the first time you sought me out in Wessport," she murmured in a soft voice. He nuzzled his chin into her hair and gave out a sound of agreement.

"Do you know what name you'll give our child?" he asked her, hugging her tighter to him.

"I have been thinking about it for a while." She shivered against the soft summer breeze and he went to get a blanket for them. She turned to face her husband and wrapped her arms around his neck. "If it is a boy, I wish to name him Edward," she told him. "Edward Jacob Fell." Isabella savored the name on her lips. How right it sounded in her ears.

The love of her life—her kindred spirit—pushed a stray chestnut lock behind her ear. "Edward Jacob Fell," he mimicked. It was a grand tribute to Jacob. But to have his other persona's name tied to his child was questionable. However, he knew that it made sense. He would not divert her from it. In the end, they would reveal his secret to their child when it was old enough—and it would understand.

"And if it is a girl," she beamed, biting her lip in a playful manner. "If it is a girl, I want it to have the name of the women who made this child and our future together possible." It was hard, because there had been many women who'd played a big part in their lives. But she could only think of one above the rest.

"Sofia-Leonora," she said to him.

His breath hitched in his throat at the two familiar names.

"I want my child named after the women who gave it all for you, my love. I want my daughter to hold the name of the mothers who birthed you and raised you to become the man you are today."

He didn't know how many more such gestures he could take. "Sofia-Leonora Fell," he mouthed. Suddenly he was reminded of Sofia, about her bittersweet absence.

His past was slowly but surely letting go of him, leaving him free for his future.

"Whatever it is, boy or girl, it will grow up safe and secure," he kissed her neck.

"With its true father by its side," Isabella whispered. She chuckled.

They stood for a while longer, listening to the seagulls and the waves. The city slowly went to bed, settled for the night. Isabella took in the perfume of Safeira. It was nothing like the gray stench of Wessport. It wafted of citrus and the sea, remnants of sunrays mixed in. She closed her eyes and enjoyed every single second.

Edward looked at her. She had her eyes closed, her body relaxed against his. The corners of her lips turned up. He loved her. He wanted to shout to the four corners of the world how much he loved her. The king thought back to their shared past, to the day that had started it all.

"November 3rd was the date that changed my life," he told her in his smooth voice, enough to make her knees buckle. She turned to face him, a questioning look spreading across her features.

"November 3rd?" she asked, a twinge of confusion mixed in with the euphoria of a summer's eve.

His thumb brushed across her lips seductively, lovingly. Her eyes sparkled with the faint beams of the full moon that slowly emerged from behind some puffy clouds on the night sky.

"It was the first time I met you."

William Fell kissed her with all the force and passion he could muster. And Isabella Fell, his queen, his long-life companion, his soul-mate, kissed him back just as ardently.

* * *

In 1521, the year of our Lord, Europe was on the cusp of the Renaissance.

1521, saw the start of the Italian wars between Spain and France, and the two superpowers openly fighting against each other created tension throughout the continent. The desire for bringing home riches from the New World still grew stronger as gold and other valuables were being brought back by the shipload.

Amidst all the tumult, an island lay to the west of southern France, forgotten and shielded from the political struggles the mainland offered. It was Angloa: once an English colony that, during the Hundred Years' War, had claimed its independence. And now, after an intense two-year period of inner conflicts, plots, intrigues and a lengthy war of succession, peace finally settled on the island.

William and Isabella Fell would rule just and wise and would lead the island into its first and true golden age, into its modernization and make it another powerful presence on the European continent.

And the one man who had made it all possible, Edward Cullen, left the impact of his sacrifice to linger long after his death—let his legend grow into myth. And his motto would forever remain in the hearts of the people, in the story that generation would pass to generation.

 _Audeamus. Let us dare!_

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Years ago, I had this idea in my head.**

 **A story.**

 **I love historical fiction, I love romance and I love fantasy—add a little bit of mystery and intrigue and I am hooked. But I wanted a story I had not read before. I searched on FanFiction and tried to find an epic adventure that mixed together all the elements I wanted. I found a great deal of amazing literature: fics that deserve to be published. But, still, I didn't find _exactly_ what I wanted. So I finally decided to write it myself. You can probably see I have taken inspiration from other literary works: The Man in the Iron Mask, The Three Musketeers, Game of Thrones, plays by Shakespeare, Beauty, and the Beast, Fairy Tales, etc. But I have even found inspiration in history, ranging from English, Spanish, French, Swedish, Turkish, etc. I make no secret of this. I believe we all find inspiration in our day-to-day lives. I happen to love history and older literature and it has suited my purpose very well.**

 **I was a teenager once, I had other stories to tell—my English was so-so and, like most teenagers, I had low self-esteem and doubts about my writing. So, imagine how awful I felt when I started getting some consistent haters on my story. I don't know if it was the same person with different accounts… or several people. I think those of you who are writers will understand the type I am talking about. Not your typical "this story sucks", or the person giving you constructive criticism like: "You need to change such and such plot-wise/grammatically" (because I LOVE constructive criticism! Don't get me wrong). No, I am talking of the person who actually had to waste enough time to meticulously go through your chapters, find those that weren't there, to begin with, faults and throw them in your face—all the while making you feel bad about it. It is the same person who would criticize, not only your style of writing but the way you wrote your characters. They might be picking on anything from plotlines to descriptive writing or emotive writing. But they would present it in such a lengthy review (maybe 1-2 A4?) that I to this day still feel my blood pressure rise slightly when I see a long review. But I know now that they are the most amazing thing a writer could ever have wished for. I love a good and long review ;)**

 **What do I mean by writing all of this? Well, I am still young (in my 20's) and I know that one is never truly an accomplished writer. There are still many things for me to learn. Heck, I could probably go over this fic right now and nitpick at things. So imagine what I would do when I return in 6 months, or 6 years!**

 **Now I can go back and re-read this story and see how I have progressed as an author. I am telling all those new writers out there to not let themselves be put down by other people. These people are typing words through the internet—because they know they'd never be able to say it to your faces. To our faces.**

 **You know, I am sad I deleted those stories: those accounts. I would have loved to go back and reread them now, so many years later!**

 **But this story will remain. And one reason it has been completed—such a big project—is thanks to one thing: _you_ , the readers. **

**I cannot express how much awe and gratitude I feel every time I go through the review section. That YOU would like this story? I have kept saying all along that I have the best readers, and it couldn't have been closer to the truth. The reason this story is completed is because of you: I want you all to know that. A million thank-you's to each and every single one of you.**

 **I don't think I'll publish this story. Not in the near future. Maybe, if I come back here in a few years, I could give it a try. But publishing seems a little frightening thing to me. I like the anonimity FF offers me and I just wish to share my writing with the rest of you!**

 **A final cheers for this one,**

 **Isabelle**


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